Jigsaw
by LadyLazarus33
Summary: They were collectively pieces in the end, the right size and shape for matters of business but somehow never could fit that right when jumbled all together. Collection of one-shots in the silently chaotic lives of the FACE family.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS. **

It was funny really.

And by funny, he really meant it in the least humorous way possible. He had raised them, along with Arthur, but the support had been less tangible than him, symbolic to put the term. And granted, he couldn't remember a time when he had been that happy amongst the rambunctiousness of his own children.

The sound of the word made a deep feeling in the bottom of his gut, something, as old as he was, _he was old_, a surge of love and protectiveness so large it almost physically hurt.

That hurt tended to spill out at times. It was without question that they never were supposed to hide anything _major_. Political discrepancies and such were fine, but he swears to God if he finds another catastrophe- _somebody was going to die._ And they would die slowly.

At least, that was his inner philosophy. The _Angleterre_, would be quicker to murder than he was if the sight of danger was clear, much less that he could have blamed this irrationality.

They were nations, for God's sake, not parents finding out their son has been teased at school by the kids on the playground, but more on the unfortunately ever-increasing scale of _shut-up-you-aren't-going-to-leave-me-please-shut-up-i-know-it-hurts -don't-say-that-because-I-love-you-too-much-for-you-to-die. _

Growing up was a relief, but it never made anything easier, because now everybody understands the struggles, and the minute idiosyncrasies, and the fact is when they look at you with those eyes you wished for a moment you could eat the world raw in their names at the sight of clenched teeth and hands, biting back words of a grand old_ 'what the hell did you just say to me? Fuck you' _to the head of their country, and the silent looks of reproach you have to give them to keep the situation under some semblance of control before there even is a situation and what hurts the most is the look on their faces at the silent answer of _no-it-doesn't-get-easier-no-you-don't-always-have-a-say-no-they-will-never-stop-talking-no-sometimes-there-isn't-anything-you-can-do-about-it-and -I-know-I-know-I-know-I-know-remember-I-love-you-and-I'm-sorry._

_Damn it, he hated that word. _

Because from where he stood it was so hollow and cold and empty and always lying to you if you wanted to make something hurts less in the moment and _sorry_ never makes up for late nights and too many cigarettes and _drip drip drip_ of coffee in mouths and down throats and in the sink and it sure as hell will never make up for bad dreams and arguments and red eyes and stomachaches and migraines and _you're-not-dead-yet_ and the panic attacks on the bathroom floor and your children don't see you holding his hand underneath the table and keeping him alive with only your eyes from here to 1947 and the _i-hate-you-je-suis-désolé-fuck-you-go-to-hell-shut-up-dad-quest-ce-c'est-passe-leave-me-alone-vous-comprenez-__jamais - _and it was a sin but you were this close to pulling the trigger because the question is was it worth it _i-don't-know-if-I'm-even-worth-it-_and your reality keeps shifting with your concept of God is anything real anymore and _if-you-would-just-listen-I'm-done-don't-you-care-about-them- don't-leave-me-if-you-knew-how-much-Arthur-and-I-love-you-reviens-tu-me-manques-je-t'aime-I'm-sorry-I-love-you-too-much-for-you-to-die_ and Matthew's dizzy spells and his brother's trouble sleeping and their heart

_Palpitations_

Because from how he saw it, death had two sides: same word, different faces.

* * *

_Part I-October _

France glances up a t the sound of feet trudging down the hall, knowing that it is not his husband. The man would probably sleep through the second coming.

He looks at the clock. _2:47_

_He would only get up if he needed to. _

Canada is more responsive to comfort than his brother. And, as much as he hated to admit it, better at hiding.

The seconds seem to hesitate.

He can almost hear his turmoil, the judgment from an unspoken force _go-back-to-bed-you'll-feel-better-later-go-to-sleep- forget-about-it-see-you-in-the-morning-you're-19-years-old-damn-it-for-God's-sake-you-do-not-need-your-father_

But even so, the weight of a body leaning against his side is enough to give him some relief from the panic ebbing itself into his chest. He frowns at Matthew's slight shaking, book forgotten on the living room side table and he just holds him for a moment. France shifts, and Matthew slowly goes with it, curling his body into his with the same fragility of a three year old afraid of the dark. The boy's face is pressed against his neck and throat. His breaths are ragged, unsteady, and almost uncomfortably hot against Frances skin, but when he starts to move, he's left decidedly cold in his son's wake.

So Francis just cards his fingers though the boy's messy hair, musing to himself faintly that he should get it cut, and hums softly, only once. The silent command is enough to make his son jump out of his daze for a moment and concentrate on slowing his heartbeat.

_One two three _

_One two three_

The grip on his shirt is loosening slowly. Canada's nails are no longer digging into his flesh through the thin fabric.

_One two three_

_One two three_

The panic that was rising in his chest is diminishing as well, and he presses his face into the boy's hair. He smells like winter and bad dreams.

_One two three_

_One two three_

And they are waltzing on the couch and the thought itself enough to make Matthew breathe. The seconds hold their breath before Francis speaks, voice almost too loud in the quiet house.

"Qu'est que tu vois?"

_What do you see?_

"Nicoline."

_Nicole. _

"Est-ce que tu te rappelles?"

_Do you remember?_

The boy whimpers. Francis runs a hand down his back, hushing him softly. He presses a soft kiss into his bed ragged hair. For a moment he wishes he could just breathe the calm he's trying to muster out of himself and into his breaking son.

"Alors?"

_Well? _

_And somehow he is young again, too young running through wilderness with their heartbeats in sync she is something more but not as Alfred, never a womb mate, but something of him and in a strange way they loved each other for a time. _

_But like everything else, it ends. _

_And there is arguments and tension and stressful days in place of winter outside underneath the full moon and daisy chains and the smell of melting ice and sap coming from the trees and instead of see-you-tomorrow-goodbye it is what-do-you-mean-why-did-you-say-that-why-are-you-doing-this-to-me-you-never-understand-me-why-why-why-why-why-why-why-why-why-why-reviens-please-don't-je-suis-désolé-i-love-you-too-much-for-you-to-go_

Francis lets him ride out the shockwave until it is over. Matthew sighs, the sound bitterly sad and almost slumps against the older nation. He continues the action of running his fingers through his hair, humming softly.

"It wasn't your fault." he offers.

The boy inhales slowly, holding onto the warmth of his father's touch before getting up and moving back into his room. The last light in the living room shuts off.

* * *

The **1995 Quebec referendum** was the second referendum to ask voters in the Canadian province of Quebec whether Quebec should proclaim national sovereignty and become an independent state, with the condition precedent of offering a political and economic agreement to Canada.

The culmination of multiple years of debate and planning after the failure of the Meech Lake Accord, the referendum was launched by the Parti Québécois government of Jacques Parizeau. An eventful and complex campaign followed, with the "Yes" side flourishing after being taken over by Bloc Québécois leader Lucien Bouchard.

The referendum took place in Quebec on October 30, 1995, with "No" winning by 54,228 votes (0.58%).

wiki/Quebec_referendum,_1995

* * *

**WELL WASN'T THAT A BUCKET-LOAD OF ANGST. POOR CANADA. **

**READ AND REVIEW! **

**Whoever posts the first review gets whatever historical event they want with France/America! NO SMUT. THEY'RE FAMILY FOR GOD'S SAKE. **


	2. Chapter 2

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

Her fingers twisted along her mouth, teeth biting into the already short nails while her other hand played with the material of the phallic blue gown she wore. Her father reached over to grasp her hand from her teeth, entwining it with his and giving her a reassuring squeeze.

"You'll ruin your nails," Francis chided softly.

"Like I give a damn," she muttered. A part of her couldn't even look him in the eye, all bright and shining as so _good_ it almost made her sick. Francis cocked his head like the cat she knew he was, the blond locks framing his face swish with his action. The rest was tied back with a black ribbon.

"Whatever damn you could be so kind to give could be focused on not looking like someone is going to attack you."

Amelia slammed the fan she had been twisting in her hand shut with a sharp snap. Francis gives her that look and for a moment she can't decide whether to hit him with the object or hide her face into the lapels of his coat. Instead she sighs, staring at the ground with a waning indifference and growing annoyance that he knows is going to come bursting forth.

"I'm…._nervous_." The word is practically spat out at him, but he's glad she's at least saying something rather than scowling at the world with coldness. Her voice had dropped from the angry speech to something of a melancholic reflection. The words she was saying were only half to him. "Nervous, angry, wretched because of my actions and his words and both of our mistakes and nobody wanted this I mean I certainly knew it _et Papa il detest moi je le sais-_

"Arête." The command is firm but calming and it put a halt to the ramblings of her mind and mouth. Amelia closed her eyes, trying to block out the scene of general partygoers and political chatter and the headache invading her head at this moment.

Francis makes no firm indication, but somehow in her dazed state they are in one of the vacant rooms of the large estate and she's burying her face in his chest. She doesn't cry- any tears she had went away eighteen years ago- because she needs to find something to be strong in and it sure as hell wasn't going to be her own resilience. (As if she had any to spare)

"Calm down." Francis breaths. Amelia barely notices his chin on top of her head, fingers tracing soothingly on the skin left bare on her back. She takes in a shuddering breath and he counts the seconds in his head_\- un duex trois _– and by then he knows that she's pretty much ready do something other than drown in her own fear. "Look at me."

"No." The way the refusal is put out makes him want to laugh. She sounded like a child, face hidden in his chest like somehow she would be able to speak the words into him like blowing air through a reed. Francis is not like Arthur, in the respect he has at least unending tolerance for minor rebellions, and waits until her head slowly comes up.

His thumb rubs underneath her eye and down her cheek, mimicking wiping away tear tracks though there aren't any to spare. That provides comfort in a normal sense, though the kiss on the forehead moves it from general to specific and Amelia gets that funny feeling in the back of her brain as to exactly how much their parents really loved them.

"He doesn't hate you."

"But-"

Amelia begins to interject but her comment is stopped by a warning, albeit forever loving, look and his finger on her lips. She rolled her eyes at the childlike approach and he removes the digit, forcing her to keep his attention.

"He doesn't hate you. You know that. People are complicated and as much as you don't want to admit it you two are people and you make mistakes."

"Yes, but the manner of fixing-"

"Will take time. You won't forgive each other right away."

* * *

"You're afraid?"

The question was not really a question, more of a statement of what Arthur already knew. What they both knew.

Matthew's grip on the wine glass tightened slightly, knuckles turning slowly white. It would break if he wasn't careful.

"Terrified."

Arthur only hummed, letting the taste of red wine stay on his tongues as he drank. The younger nation didn't know whether to waste himself away (though the act would be virtually impossible) or smash the container to the ground. He might gain some satisfaction in watching something else shatter other than his relationships.

A part of him wanted to hate her.

"The war is over, but you still look at things in black and white. She's a person, just as much as you and-"

"You don't think I know that?!" Matthew's voice is akin to his grey eyes, sharp and cold. "As a nation, I did what I was supposed to do. What I _had_ to do."

"I'm not arguing with that. You know that." Arthur reasoned coolly. Matthew silently hated it when his father did this. "But there's something else, correct?"

"As a person, how could she not despise me?"

"Do you hate her?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. I hate her for what she did and hate myself for both our actions."

"There's no point in forgiving anyone right away, be it ourselves or her. It takes as much time to fix something as it does to break it."

Matthew exhales slowly, a part of him seeing the logic in his father's words and another part growing ever more nervous at the thought of seeing his sister- just thinking the word made him internally flinch. In light of everything, his conscience overran his rational, cold hearted thinking and this- well, the conversation now wasn't making him feel any-

* * *

"Better?"

Amelia nodded, before wincing slightly as the buzz in the back of her brain increased slightly, signaling her brother's arrival in the vicinity. The elder nation led his daughter back outside, feeling her nails digging into the fabric of his arm.

Matthew feels the breath caught in his throat and nearly chokes on the wine he had been drinking at the sight of her- _was it a mistake for her to be wearing his favorite color?_

Both of the siblings could feel the tension in the air increase before they even caught sight of one another and locked eye contact with an ever-increasing visibility of _oh-God-oh-God-oh-god-oh-god_ and his sister- the word is still bitter even now- is trying to keep a straight face in the midst of _I'm-sorry-what-don't-you-understand-you-hurt-me-but-that's-no-big-deal-now-is-it-we're-rebuilding-the-house-now-no-thanks-to-you _and her brother is gripping his glass a bit more tightly with an realization that both France and England cold see of _I-did-what-was-right-and-I'm-sorry-i-wouldn't-have-done-it-if-it-caused-you-pain-i-still-love-you-did-you-know-that_

Her eyes flicker down to her hands as they stand in a somewhat awkwardly huddled mass on the edge of the room. Matthew followers her gaze, watching the digits slowly fiddle amongst themselves. Both of their minds are on overdrive, she can feel that much from him, and is eternally grateful that he won't invade into her headspace without her permission.

Somewhere in the awkward thirty seconds of silence, Arthur and Francis have managed to move from the two of them. Amelia barely registers the light squeeze of reassurance Arthur gives her as he walks away, the taller French nation a few leagues ahead.

Matthew bites the inside of his cheek, lightly shifting from foot to foot, and a part of her wants to fight back a giggle at his childish habit.

_Baby steps. _

Amelia exhales slowly, trying to get used to his absolute nearness. The scar on the back of her neck burns slightly. Matthew rubs the back of his neck in response to the irritation and she can slowly feel the both of them relax.

"Do you want to dance?" The words are blurted out in an obdurate and weighty rush, but Amelia can see the sense of desperation in his gaze of _please-I-can't-lose-you-again_

A smile and she takes his hand.

* * *

The **War of 1812** was a military conflict, lasting for two-and-a-half years, between the United States of America and the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, its North American colonies and its American Indian allies. Seen by the United States and Canada as a war in its own right, it is frequently seen in Europe as a theatre of the Napoleonic Wars, as it was caused by issues related to that war (especially the Continental System). The war resolved many issues which remained from the American Revolutionary War but involved no boundary changes. The United States declared war on June 18, 1812 for several reasons, including trade restrictions brought about by the British war with France, the impressment of American merchant sailors into the Royal Navy, British support of Indian tribes against American expansion, outrage over insults to national honor after humiliations on the high seas and possible American interest in annexing British North American territory (part of modern-day Canada).

wiki/War_of_1812

* * *

**This was short and was in my documents for the past three months. :P Continue or no? ****I know that technically this should have been a spat between England and America, but I thought "hey, let's make it a fight between siblings! That's always fun!" *grabs popcorn* **

**And yes, America is a girl. Couldn't help myself. Genders might be switched occasionally... DON'T JUDGE. :) **

**READ AND REVIEW! :) **


	3. Chapter 3

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

Alfred pulled away suddenly, and to his dim senses felt the rim of a basin cold against his chin as he vomited up his dinner from hours before. Francis rubbed his back, pulling the nation's dirty blond hair away from his forehead. Alfred leaned against him, turning suddenly to straddle Francis' waist and bury his face into his neck before the shaking started. Francis sighed, lifting himself up into a better position against the bedpost from where they sat on the carpet. The sobs that came were pitifully hollow and loud in the quiet house, but Alfred seemed to show no sign of being able to stop.

"I-I- d-d-d-didn't- Mattie, I-" he tried to speak only to collapse into heaving cries again. His grip on Francis' shirt was almost painful, but he paid no heed to that, moving his hand into the young boy's hair.

"_Oui, je sais, je sais..."_ he soothed,pressing his lips against Alfred's forehead. The comfort only seemed to make Alfred cry harder.

Half an hour found him near hysterics, and Arthur peeked in worriedly, eyes flickering between his son and husband.

"Matthew?" Francis' eyes asked.

"Sleeping in our room." he mouthed.

Francis nodded, eyes locking again on the wall as he rocked America back and forth, hand reaching behind the younger nations neck and pressing. Arthur flinched as he saw America suddenly go limp in France's arms. He stepped forward for a moment, stopping when Francis shook his head.

"Go to bed, _mon cher. Ça va?_ I will stay with him."

England's eyes narrowed for a slight moment before nodding and heading down the hall.

Francis sighed again, the rocking motion never stopping even when the sun crept in and cast early shadows along the floor.

He woke up to the smell of roses and salt.

The combination itself didn't make any sense, but he felt his stomach protest in response. Blond hair brushed against his cheeks and he lifted his head slightly only to feel a firm hand on the back of his skull push him back down gently.

Why did he feel so dizzy?

"Shhh..._L'Amérique_. Go back to sleep. It's still early." the voice said from above him.

Francis?

His hand was numb, but he didn't have the energy to actually move. A half garbled protest made its way into the air and he felt Francis chuckle before planting a kiss into the nations hair.

_"A m'asseoir sur un banc cinq minutes avec toi_

_Et regarder les gens tant qu'y en a_

_Te parler du bon temps qu'est mort ou qui r'viendra_

_En serrant dans ma main tes p'tits doigts_

_Pis donner à bouffer à des pigeons idiots_

_Leur filer des coups d' pieds pour de faux_

_Et entendre ton rire qui lézarde les murs_

_Qui sait surtout guérir mes blessures_

_Te raconter un peu comment j'étais, mino_

_Les bonbecs fabuleux qu'on piquait chez l' marchand_

_Car en sac et Mintho, caramels à un franc_

_Et les Mistral gagnants"_

Alfred sighed sleepily, body movements pulling himself even closer to the older man and burying his face into his neck, which he was surprised to find was damp.

_Had he cried all night? _

Francis felt the young boy stiffen against him as the memories of the previous night flooded through his brain. Frowning slightly, Francis wrapped his arms around Alfred in a death grip though the nation struggled slightly, muttering garbled half-protestations that didn't make sense to either of their ears, though the one half-strangled whisper against he skin he knew all too well.

_"I'm sorry."_

"_Non, non, non, non _you have nothing to be sorry for, _mon petit." _Francis soothed, slipping his too cold hand underneath the nations shirt to sooth the beginning of the scar that ran from almost halfway around his back and across his stomach.

"I couldn't choose, I couldn't-" Alfred broke off, trying to control the sobs that were building up in his throat and pressed himself tighter to his father. The coldness of his hands made him numb, made him forget.

"Alfred?"

The shape huddled on top of the rumpled sheets didn't move. Matthew bit the inside of his cheek, moving over to the side of the bed to face his brother. The nation's eyes were glazed, unfocused even when Matthew's hand rubbed along his shoulder.

"Alfred... Alfie you gotta get up and eat something." The use of the childhood nickname made Matthew flinch.

A something akin to a moan came out of the older nation's mouth and he could feel America shaking slightly.

_'Can't...stomach-sleep.'_

_'I know, but you've been sleeping most of the day. Come on. Try, for me.' _

Three minutes passed before he could see any sign of movement through the dim lighting. The curtain had been drawn shut, only a small amount of natural daylight coming through. Matthew placed an arm around his waist, throat tightening when he could easily feel the bones underneath his shirt. They moved together, slowly down the hall. The only sounds in the house was the rain hitting the roof and windows, along with the quiet chatter of their parents on the second floor.

_'Meatloaf?' _came the thought question.

_'Yeah. Your favorite. Don't worry, Papa made it._

Alfred only hummed slightly as they made their way into the spacious dining area. Almost immediately, he felt England's hands running through his hair before pressing a kiss on the top of his head.

"Idiot. Thought I was going to have to hire my own private detective to come find you."

A small smile came across the nation's lips and disappeared quickly as it had come. Alfred sat at the table, trying to ignore the buzzing in the back of his skull and the sound of cannon fire in his ears from another nightmare.

The sounds of forks on plates filled the room as well as the quiet mixtures of French and English as they ate. He slowly spooned a bite of the food into his mouth, letting the flavors wash over him.

_Assassin. _

_Murder._

_Monster._

The other him grins from the side of the room, mirroring his position exactly from the corner of his eye. There are smell of smoke is so real he can feel his eyes begin to water.

_Alfred._

Go away.

He could hear them screaming now, women and children watching as their husbands and fathers were cut down one by one. The stench of blood permeated the room. The two of them crouched by his seat, and he tried to ignore their whispers.

_Hero or monster?_

_Angel or demon?_

_Jekyll or Hyde?_

_Just choose. _

He grabbed the napkin with trembling fingers, spitting out the food before bunching it in his lap. The chatter stopped then and he could feel Matthew's hand grasp his.

'Alfie?' the nation thought, clear blue eyes dark with worry.

America began to sob then, fingers twisting the napkin until he thought the cloth might tear.

_"It tastes like ashes."_

* * *

**It's fun starting things _in medias res. Yes. I did just use Latin. You're welcome. _Brownie points for anyone who knows what it means. :)**

**Definitely redoing this later, but just wanted to post to see first responses. Ideas or suggestions? Let me know in comments! The song that France sings is one of my favorites: _Mistral Gagnant _. Super pretty and sweet and you guys should look it up! **

**Read and Review! **


	4. Chapter 4

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

_Going up, going down, down, down_

_Anything for the crown, crown, crown._

Primadonna||Marina and the Diamonds

* * *

The funny things was, when he looked back over the events of the years, there wasn't any clear answer to if it could have been stopped. Hunger had always been a problem, existed since the dawn of time, but now- in all honesty, it had never been so concentrated into such deep centered _need_.

Even with the sweet red of wine on his tongue and _les petits gateaux_ and _fromage_ and the dizzying affect that everyone had on everyone else in that palace Louis built. To him, and in the nativity that he was cursed-_or did he choose_\- with, summer was forever, as was everything else.

Everything but the bread.

* * *

The cries of various persons crowded in the room was giving him a headache, and the representation of France steps out of the room to clear his head. He leans his head against the wall of the building, swiping off his hat in a rare occurrence before the figure beside him spoke.

"Are you sure about this?"

_Il décrète que tous les membres de cette Assemblée prend immédiatement un serment solennel à ne pas séparer et de remonter partout où les circonstances l'exigent, jusqu'à ce que la constitution du Royaume est établie et consolidée sur des bases solides ; et que, le serment de ladite pris, tous les membres et chacun d'eux individuellement doivent ratifient cette résolution inébranlable de signature._

France turns to England, biting back any semblance of a sharp retort, before seeing the genuine look of unease in his friend's eyes, before it disappeared altogether. He tries to ignore the slight twinge in the back of his mind.

"Absolument."

* * *

They had tried to flee.

It didn't work of course.

* * *

When they start executing left and right, he knows something's not right about it. On another cold day, and with a grand death- ninth one this week- he feels like he's the head rolling into the streets. Francis turns away from the sound of cheers, the taste of blood and pretends the feeling in the pit of his stomach is pride.

* * *

As he sits in a vacant section of the palace, he doesn't even have to turn around in his chair to know England is behind him.

"Come to gloat?" The words are biting and a part of Francis wants to flinch at the way they sound on his tongue.

"No." The nation rubs his eyes in growing frustration and exhaustion at the deteriorating state of his friend. The only sound between them is Francis gulping down another glass of Mourvèdre and sitting back with a heavy sigh.

"They want to execute her." England states, hoping for something to shock Francis out of his state, but he doesn't even move."They plan to destroy _everything_." Arthur positions himself in front of the man, containing the shock in his body at Francis' too thin frame underneath his clothes, hair limp and ragged, eyes bloodshot and stark against his pale skin. "Are you going to do _anything_?" The words are practically hissed.

Francis can feel the clockwork slowing down in his head and for a moment his eyes flicker back to the bodies in his streets, starving or slaughtered, it didn't matter anymore at this point. His hand lifts up absentmindedly to rub his wrist and Arthur wants to scream at the scars littered across the pale flesh.

Francis' eyes flicker up to meet the nation's, dull blue meeting intense green. "Austria's going to kill me."

The last sound Arthur hears as he walks out is glass shattering amongst laughter.

* * *

**FRENCH REVOLUTION FOR THE WIN! (SAID NO ONE EVER.) **

**But really, guys. Sorry if I didn't do France justice with the whole descent into madness stuff, but this lasted like 10 years, and I am not going to write ten years worth of history in a tiny Fanfic. meh. Me being lazy. *cries because of history* **

**Historical Note: The major paragraph in French is the famous Tennis Court Oath of 1792. Major part of the French Revolution and reads as thus: **

_It decrees that all members of this Assembly shall immediately take a solemn oath not to separate, and to reassemble wherever circumstances require, until the constitution of the kingdom is established and consolidated upon firm foundations; and that, the said oath taken, all members and each one individually shall ratify this steadfast resolution by signature._

**Cool right?! Over here in awesome USA we got most of our ideas for government from the French, for which we are eternally grateful. :) Any suggestions for improvement or just normal requests? Let me know in comments! **

**READ AND REVIEW. :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

_Dedicated to Goesto11._

* * *

_January 1946_

Surprisingly enough, they come as a unit into the too spacious bedroom.

They had all gone to bed a reasonable enough time, though the pounding of a growing thunderstorm outside was enough to jolt both Alfred and Matthew from their mix of shared and not shared nightmares. Alfred jolts awake in a panic, covering his ears of the thunder that he knows is bombs and _oh god why couldn't he just die it wasn't fair stopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstop- _

Canada puts a firm, but gentle hand onto his brother's shoulder, practically dragging the boy up and down the hall to the only real sense of solace they actually had. The dark hallway is enough to make the both of them flinch at the unspoken memories of freezing nights outside and the smell of corpses-

As soon as they enter the room there is some shifting, before the bedside lamp flickers on with a groan of slight annoyance.

"Boys, it's two in the-"Any complaint on the Arthur's lips died at the sight of his sons, both looking ready to fall apart at any moment. Francis rubs his eyes, sitting up and frowning at the sight of their children. Matthew held onto Alfred, who looked about ready to collapse, his eyes bloodshot from the constant interruptions of sleep. Alfred whimpers as another rumble of thunder comes from outside and echoes through the house.

Arthur looks over at the man beside him, but the request doesn't even need to be asked before he has Alfred curled up beside him. Matthew is beside Francis, his back touching his brother's. Alfred stifles a sob, burying his face into his father's neck for some semblance of relief, though the panic gripping his chest is enough to make him break underneath the weight of his own memories.

He's shaking.

England lifts himself higher against the bedpost, stealing a glance at Francis, who is combing his fingers through Matthew's hair in some attempt to calm him down as well. The boy gives an unsteady breath at the gesture, curling more deeply into the Frenchman like he could become part of his body. Alfred bites his lip to keep his crying under control, though it does little good. England places a hand underneath the boy, pulling him over until his legs are entwined with his and his head is against his chest.

America can hear the low drumming of his heart.

"Tell me about before." The request is mumbled against his shirt amidst heavy shudders and gasps.

England feels the twinge of pain in his heart, so real it makes him wince. "Alfred-"

"Please. Anything to make them go away." Alfred's voice breaks at the last statement and he can feel the scar on his stomach begin to burn slightly. "I c-can't lose them ag-g-gai-n-n-"

"Hush, sweetheart." Arthur moves a soothing hand up and down the boy's back. "I remember the first few months. You wouldn't sleep at all. Neither of you would. Your father and I didn't understand it." He could hear France chuckle dryly at the memory before speaking, voice low and tinged with sleep. Matthew shifts slightly and he runs a hand down his back.

"_Oui_. And the both of you would cry and cry and cry if someone wasn't holding you. More often than not it had to be one of us." Arthur cards his fingers through America's messy hair as the shaking begins to slow down.

"There was a point we didn't get any sleep for two days straight." England breathes.

"We'd walk up and down the house; and the two of were so little but could wail as loud as anything. Didn't matter what time of night it was. We fed you, sang, read, but nothing. Not even a yawn." France cracks a small smile at the memory of dark-

_Nights with the window open and showing the two of them the constellations in the stars they had learned from their pirate days and the baby in his arms shifts slightly grasping his father's shirt with impossibly tiny fingers dear god he was so tiny-_

Both the boys breathing has slowed down considerably, and before long they are on the edge of unconsciousness. Their parents have to smirk at the irony of the situation as the children in their arms- _because that's what they were reduced to after the hell from the last five years-_ fight the urge.

"We would walk around and be begging you, making all kinds of promises if you would just stop and go to _sleep._ But all you did was look at me with those big beautiful eyes." England sighs, moving the boy slightly higher against him. Alfred shakes slightly, before his father presses a kiss against his hair.

Alfred's body gradually relaxes as the minutes pass by, letting the lull of his father's voice drown out everything except the sound of slow breathing. He moves his body, sinking further into his father like a cushion, and nuzzles his face into the warmth of his shirt.

France is looking at him with those sad, blue eyes of his and he feels a twinge of pain in his heart of how _old_ he feels sometimes. How they both feel at times. Matthew's hand moves from its place against France's chest, groping for his brother's in his sleep. Alfred doesn't even shift to comply, instinctually moving closer to his twin and grasping his hand as he slips into deep unconsciousness.

The parents sigh before sinking down lower into the covers, holding their children closer as the night passes on and try to pretend the empty feeling in the pit of their stomachs is nothing but a lack of sleep.

* * *

***SOB* I was trying to make this fluffy, but then...angst and sadness and history and ugh. But the memory thing is kind of cute. This is more focused on America and England, but the whole FACE gang is involved. Poor guys. :(**

**Note: The songs that inspired this Fanfic are:**

**Marianne by Tori Amos **

**Avril 14th by Aphex Twin **

**The Secret Life of Daydreams from the _Pride and Prejudice_ Soundtrack **

**READ AND REVIEW! :)**


	6. Chapter 6- Part I

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS **

_May 15, 1946_

_Manchester, United Kingdom_

_53.4667° N, 2.2333° W_

_Local Time: 13:44 p.m. _

Sunlight came through the tall windows above the rows of benches lined up on either side of the long expanse of the hallway. The light only seemed to make the white of the military office more glaring than it already was. Seemed to only magnify the emptiness of the color, the room, and the ticking of the large clock hanging above the double decker doors down the hall.

Canada wanted to smash it into the ground.

He hadn't stopped twisting the dial on his own pocket watch for the past hour, messing with the time on it for some semblance of relief from the ticking on the wall and in his own head. He runs his fingers over the engraving again- _Happy Birthday. Love, Arthur Kirkland-_and just feeling the words make his throat begin to burn before he swallows them down.

America's knee hadn't stopped bouncing up and down for the past two and a half hours they had been sitting here waiting. Matthew had to practically pin him down every time the doors at the end of the hall opened or even moved in the slightest. He rests a hand on his brother's moving knee to give him at least some appearance of one of them being calm, though Alfred knew his brother was as nervous as him.

_256 fucking days. _

The realization of that makes his blood boil and Matthew's grip on his twin's knee tightens before Alfred lets out the breath he didn't realize he had been holding through clenched teeth. "Sorry." He mumbles, rubbing a hand over his eyes and tries to remember the last time he really slept. _Exactly __6 years, 8 months, 15 days and_ _3,526,560 minutes but then again who's counting? _

Canada only nods, but doesn't move his hand. "It's natural, Al."

The nation shakes his head before running a hand through his hair in growing, if anything more prevalent, agitation. "I'm scared, Mattie."

The use of the childhood nickname makes the both of them flinch and he grasps his brother's hand to give himself some grip on reality before he fell apart at the seams. "I think for the both of us 'scared' would be an understatement."

Alfred chuckles dryly at that before heaving a long sigh. "It's over at least."

Matthew hums in agreement. The silence hangs for a while before he speaks, voice reflective. "Do you remember when we were little-"

" Pre-Revolution?" Alfred hums, crossing his arms and shifting slightly to make himself a bit more comfortable on the hard bench. He should have been used to hard surfaces by now.

His brother shakes his head. "No, before that. Like _really_ little. And they would have to go on these long trips to keep in touch with their bosses for months?"

America smirks. "We thought it was the end of the world. Every-

"_-time to go! For God's sake Francis, hurry up!" Arthur yells from the library, his voice carrying along the house bustling with people carrying papers, boxes, suitcases out the door and down the road to the docks. He checks his watch for the thousandth time before the Frenchman appears in the doorway. _

_"__Sacré Bleu, will you stop yelling? I'm here. Anyone else would think you were being murdered." Francis mutters, examining the documents still scattered across the table. They were both on edge from the weeks of planning both from and back to the colonies. Arthur sighs, busy organizing his section of papers before his ears pick up an indignant cry. Two actually. _

_"__Don't go!" _

_Arthur doesn't even have to look up to see his two sons clamoring into the room, nearly knocking down the groups of people carrying various supplies. The tugging on his pant leg isn't new either and he knows if he looks down they won't be getting anywhere anytime soon. He shoots a look at Francis, who merely shrugs. _

_America is standing there, practically a dwarf to his father's tall and lanky frame, blue eyes furious as much as a two year olds could be. Arthur's vibrant green oculars flicker down to his son, who apparently dragged his brother along with him. He crouches down to his level. "Alfred, you know I have business to attend to overseas, as does your father." _

_"__Don't care. Stay." Alfred crosses his arms and England has to fight the urge to laugh at something so adorable. _

_"__Please?" The request comes from his brother behind him, quieter but vocal nonetheless. Arthur sighs, making eye contact with France before the nation comes and picks up Matthew. Alfred follows in the same manner as England. _

_"__Can we come with you, Papa?" Francis laughs at the request from Matthew, shifting him slightly before answering. "I'm afraid not, mon petit choux." Matthew giggles at the nickname. Alfred turns to his father with a somewhat disappointed look on his face before Arthur internally sighs. _

_"__I don't want you to go." The confession is hurried before the toddler's face buries itself in Arthur's neck. Both parents have to smile at their children's desires, before Arthur cards his fingers through the boy's hair in a sense of comfort. _

_"__We'll be back before you know it."_

"Kirkland-Bonnefey?"

The voice of the woman at the end of the hall jolts the both of them out of their daydreams before standing up. Matthew waves his hand in acknowledgement and the secretary motions them to follow her before walking forward, the sound of her heels echoing through the long hallway.

_Dear God, why did his heart feel like it was going to explode? _

The North American twins lock eyes with each other as they move through the double decker doors to a smaller corridor and turn left before stopping in front of an office.

"They're just inside. Good luck." The woman smiles before walking back. Matthew nods before glancing at his brother who looks like he's about to pass out. He grips his shoulder and for a moment the both of them can practically taste the lie they were fed-_don't wait up we'll come back soon take care of your brother ok_\- before it swallowed down like a pill and sits like several boulders in their stomachs.

_265 days. _

The door opens without a sound.

* * *

***angry noises from readers* **

**I know, I know. Cliffhanger, but this is only part one! Don't worry! Goodness. **

**READ AND REVIEW :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS **

"Continuez à lire"

_Keep reading. _

Francis has to smirk at the mumbled request from the girl lying beside him in the long grass. One hand holds the book while the other was carding the long fingers through his daughter's hair. Amelia shifted slightly from her place, readjusting where her head was laying in her father's lap.

« J'ai pensé que vous étiez endormis. » came the reply.

_I thought you were asleep. _

Amelia only grumbles, twisting blades of grass between her fingers in a moment of half alertness and half full blown unconsciousness. A piece of it tickles her ear, once, twice, before she swats away her brother's hand with annoyance.

"Stop bothering your sister, Matthew." Arthur warns from where he's leaning against the tree. The four of them were huddled underneath the tree and it's expanse of branches, letting half rays of shadow and sunlight come through. Matthew only shrugs, going back scribbling in the notepad he brought earlier. Amelia was the only one of them who didn't sleep or in better terms refused to sleep the entire trip here.

"You should sleep." Matthew suggests to which she shakes her head, plucking a daisy and watching it against the sunlight. Francis smirks, meeting his husband's eyes with a sense of knowing. _She'll be out in five minutes tops._

"There's no point Matthew, she's been the same way since she's been an infant." England mutters, crossing his arms and glancing at his daughter, who only sticks her tongue out at him. Amelia pokes Francis side with a finger and he sighs, returning to the book.

_"_Rousseau says,_ 'If we assume man has been corrupted by an artificial civilization, what is the natural state? _

This section of the Petit Trianon was empty save the four of them. Francis could almost feel the trees expanding with every breath they took, like their own lungs were bound to the ground by roots.

He meets Arthur's eyes and almost flinches at the quick flash of sympathy in his vibrant green eyes before it was gone, or better yet, diminishes to the point he could reasonably ignore it. "_This is ridiculous,"_ she had laughed. He remembers the young woman surrounded by attendants, blue eyes wide with wonder and excitement and the look of _I'm so happy I could die_ was so large that it nearly made him choke. For a moment he almost feels selfish, knowing in the back of his mind that it wasn't going to last. It never lasted no matter how hard he tried.

_The state of nature from which he has been removed?_

Matthew has abandoned his drawing of the landscape before them, moving over and leaning his head on his sister's stomach to which she doesn't object. His feet rest on Arthur's lap who leans his head against the tree and watches the wind play with the stalks of green. Francis just tries to block out the image of the queen with sunlight in her hair.

_Imagine, wandering up and down the forest without industry, without speech, and without home."_

Amelia's breathing is slowing down and she shifts slightly, eyes closed before she slips into unconsciousness altogether. Her brother lasts for only another two minutes before he joins her, breaths low and even. Arthur gives a sad smile to the Frenchman, and a part of Francis wishes he could take this and draw it out forever.

"Are you admiring your work?" Francis doesn't look up from the book when the question floats through the air, catching on sunlight before disappearing to the back of his brain. He fingers the pages of the book, feeling the intense gaze of his husband from where he's sitting and can practically taste _you know they love you you're not going to lose them I promise. _The Frenchman looks down at the dozing girl, softly running the back of his hand along her cheek as though she was made of glass. Amelia nuzzles into his touch in her sleep.

"Just saying goodbye."

* * *

**Sooo..._Marie Antoinette_ (2006) anyone? Say what you will about the film, but it's one of my favorites. This is based off of the scene depicting the queen's private life in Le Petit Trianon in the film, which I really love the feeling of. I honestly feel there would have been strong sense of regret on France's part due to what happened with Marie, not necessarily on the nation side, but the humanistic parental side as well. It's like promising to take care of your friend's puppy for a week and when they come back that puppy is not only dead but your entire house is in a state of uproar. And dog poo. :( Nasty. **

**And forgive me if this isn't my best, as I'm sure a lot of you wanted to know what happened next back in chapter 6- *dodges slew of bullets from gunfire on angry readers* but we will be getting there...eventually. **

**Normally I'd suggest for you to listen to the songs that inspire me, but right now I am telling you listen to this piece to while reading this. Go. Right now. Not even joking. **

**_Opus 23_ by Dustin O'Halloran (funnily enough also on the Marie Antoinette soundtrack from the film. Irony. Gets you in the feels every damn time.)**

**READ AND REVIEW :) **


	8. Chapter 8

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS **

It's the flashing of his colors in the distance that seems to bring him out of the state he's in.

The police officer is friendly, enough that anyone could be at three in the morning, asking him the simple protocol that Alfred knows is the law because he was there when it came into play. He doesn't make eye contact with the man, trying to figure out the muddled feeling in the back of his brain. _Have you been drinking-__**no**__\- are you on any medications, prescription or otherwise-__**no**__-do you know how you got here-__**I don't even know if I'm awake**_

The sight of his father two hours later at the station should be some relief to him, but neither him nor Arthur say anything until he slides into the passenger seat, leaning his head against the window. England grips the steering wheel with bone white knuckles but doesn't start the car. He leans his head against the headrest of his seat, green eyes flickering to the hunched form of his son in the seat next to him.

Boxers and a white t-shirt wandering the back roads at three in the morning _in the middle of fucking September._

"Why?" The question drops like a weight in the silence of the vehicle.

America only gives a ragged exhale of breath, feeling the cold air release itself out of his lungs and disappear into the dark.

* * *

They pull into the front of the house and from the sleep that is invading his mind at that moment, Alfred can't even find the energy to unbuckle his seatbelt. The lights are on in the spacious dwelling and for a moment he feels like a sailor lost at sea looking at a lighthouse.

The door on his side opens and there are muted conversations in a garble of French and English that is fading in and out and someone is carrying him inside and up the stairs before he sinks back down into the dark.

France and England watch Matthew climb into their bed along with his brother, clasping his hand for some sense of reassurance on both their parts before the light flickers off. Arthur sighs, leaning his head into Francis's shoulder before a pair of arms wrap around his frame and squeeze before letting go.

As much as he hates it, the look in those clear blue eyes said _this_ could wait until morning.

* * *

The next time it happens, he's somehow on the roof.

* * *

The dip on his bed at precisely 9:07 p.m. does nothing to stop his blank stare at the floor of his room. The physical contact however of a hand however is new and he looks into the eyes of his brother with a mix of fatigue and numbness. Canada says nothing, leaning his head against America's shoulder and linking their fingers together as they tried to find solid ground.

_I'm sorry_. The thought itself is more like a whimper and Matthew only hums.

_Don't be._

* * *

The pills do nothing but deepen his sleep.

_And the nightmares._

* * *

It's the thirty seventh night and he's not even in his room, rather hunched on the couch with his back curled and knees pressed to his chest as he tries to focus on anything but the never-ending cycle in his brain of _tiredtiredtiredtiredijustwantittogoawaypleasegoddamnitwhycan'titjustgoaway _

He doesn't even notice he's having an attack until England sits beside him, wrapping his arms around the shaking boy who at the moment is trying to figure out why his heart wanted to claw its way out of his chest.

England only combs his fingers through Alfred's hair, almost wincing at the ragged breaths he feels against his throat. The nation's hand is pressed against England's chest, concentrating on his heartbeat and it takes five minutes-_only three less than the last time_\- for him to fully calm down.

Alfred breaths a heavy sigh, eyes closing at the soothing motion of his parent's hand rubbing up and down his back, humming softly.

"Does it get any easier?" The question innocent, though the weight is _anything but._

England says nothing.

* * *

***sigh* I honestly have no idea where this came from, but I liked the idea of sleepwalking America. This is due to me listening to too much classical music late at night...also watching Hannibal on NBC...again. Late at night. DON'T JUDGE ME, YOU DO IT TOO. **

**Songs that inspired this fic: **

**_Gymnopédie No.1_ by Erik Satie**

**And...surprisingly a painting as well helped me write this. _The Priestess of Delphi_ by John Collier (1891). Super pretty picture and my new phone background...DON'T JUDGE. I LIKE ART AS WELL AS HISTORY. Anyways, here's the link to that if you guys want to see it. **

** wikipedia/commons/2/25/Collier-priestess_of_ **

**READ AND REVIEW! :) **


	9. Chapter 9

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS **

It's been eight months and he still doesn't understand how something so small can make _so much noise._

The representation of England wakes up, more like jolts, from a barely caught _forty-five minutes_ of sleep to the sound of crying at the end of the hall. England buries his head in the pillow, not even wanting to look at his watch, before being prodded in the shoulder by his less than happy partner.

"Can't you do it?" Arthur whines. The sound is muffled by the pillow and he almost slips back to sleep before the poking increases-harder this time. His head snaps up to glare at France, who is only half awake. "We're his _parents_. Hence the use of _pluralization_." England hisses.

"Before sunrise he's _your_ son." France mumbles, sinking deeper into the covers before falling back to sleep and ignoring the grumbles of the man. Arthur sighs, rubbing a hand over his face and swinging his legs out of bed for the third time that night before moving down the hall.

The lamp on the table in the side of the room flickers on revealing the four pale yellow walls of the nursery, three separate drawers, two cribs, and one very upset infant almost to the point of wailing in his cot. America continues to cry even as his father picks him up, rocking the colony back and forth. The noise was beginning to get to him and he takes one hand to try and quell the increasing migraine coming forth.

"What's the matter Alfred? And whatever it is can't it wait so Daddy can get some _sleep_?" Arthur croons to the infant. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with the boy. He'd been fed a few hours ago, changed as well. Even with the constant hushing coming from his parental unit, he still continues to fuss. A small cry from the opposite cot alerts Arthur's ears before-

_Oh dear god, please no. _

And now Matthew was awake.

And crying.

England takes a deep breath. And another. And another. And another. And another. When that didn't work, he moves to the doorway with the still crying Alfred in his arms. _"Frog!"_ The call was more yelled than whispered, though at the moment they were the only one in the spacious house.

It takes less than three seconds for the man to appear in the doorway, blue filled to the brim with exhaustion and annoyance. "_Quoi?" _ The Frenchman practically spits the word. Arthur says nothing, jerking his head to the other wailing infant left in his cot while he tried to soothe Alfred. Francis heaves a heavy sigh, moving past him and into the nursery. Matthew only continues his wails as France picks him up, rubbing the infant's back.

"Shhh…_Quel est le problème, ma chérie ? »_ Francis soothed. "Did your father wake you up?" The words are shot in Arthur's general direction with a vehemence only brought on by the amount of time they had both gone without any sleep.

England's glare was enough to level buildings, to which France only shrugged. "Are they hungry?"

"You don't think I've already thought about that?!" England hissed. His stress levels was through the roof and seemed to be feeding the child in his arms. America only seemed to cry harder. "Maybe if you weren't so focused on sleeping, maybe this wouldn't be a problem!"

"_Mon Dieu_, you're blaming me for the nature _of an infant_. You think I haven't been trying as much as you?! I haven't slept for _four fucking days_." The words are growled Arthur's way.

"Well _excuse me_ for wanting the best for our children!" England spits. The commotion from both adults was not helping the situation at all with their two now waling infants. Green meets blue before a heavy sigh splits through the air and the both of them are filing out of the cramped quarters of the nursery and downstairs.

The change of scenery and start of movement seems to calm the twins down, and in a few minutes it was just a matter of getting them to actually sleep that posed a challenge.

"At least they aren't crying anymore." France states, moving up and down the long corridor. England hums his agreement, slowly rocking the colony in his arms, but not getting so much a yawn from the baby.

"Come on, love. You have to sleep sometime." England murmurs to Alfred. The child only blinked up at him with big eyes. The family had been up for the better part of two hours so far and the exhaustion was beginning to take the last of what both of them had.

"Arthur."

The quiet call from France prompt the nation to turn around and move over beside his husband where he stand by the window. The curtains were open, letting the moonlight spill into the house and the mix of colors swirling in the sky. Reds, blues, and greens mixed together in the sky, moving along the hazes of light like a ballroom floor.

_Aurora Borealis. _

« _C'est beau n'est ce pas ?_ » Francis breaths and Arthur knows he isn't talking to him. Both twins' looks are fixated on the moving flashes and beams of light in the night sky. The rocking motion continue on both the parent's parts and they almost don't notice the slow and steady breathing of the children in their arms, lost in sleep.

The two nation's eyes meet and both crack a small smile at the situation currently, momentarily casting a glance down at their two boys before looking again out into the night sky.

"Make a wish." France says softly, eyes still fixed on the sky outside. Arthur says nothing, still slowly rocking the young colony in his arms as the time passed on because he can't voice something as childish and silly and so impossible that it makes his heart hurt just thinking-

_Please stay like this forever._

* * *

***angry cries from readers* I'm sorry! Not everything is sunshine and roses okay! God. Hope you enjoy this copious amount of fluff. It was actually pretty difficult for me to write. It's definitely not one of my favorite pieces I've written, but cute nonetheless. Guess I'm not a lovey dovey type of person. *laughs* who am I kidding? I'm not. *goes back to watching Firefly* YES RIVER. NO POWER IN THE 'VERSE CAN STOP YOU. **

**Songs that inspired this fic:**

**_The Seal Lullaby_ by Eric Whitacre **

**Super pretty choir piece guys, and this is coming from a choir nerd so yes I am biased. The alto/men part...*dies* Any requests, PM me or let me know in comments! ****READ AND REVIEW!**


	10. Chapter 10

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS **

_For Autumn_

* * *

"Dad?"

The whispered request is enough to slowly bring Arthur Kirkland out of his dreaming state, and the man rubs his face before sitting up in bed and seeing the form of his son beside him. "What's the matter? Are you hurt?"

Matthew shakes his head, and in the dim light he can see the boy's hand rest against his stomach. "No, I'm fine. It's-"Arthur sees his son flinch, before grey eyes flash towards the open door and down the hall where the light came from the corridor. Francis shifts beside him on the bed before sitting up and blinking at Arthur with bleary eyes.

_"Qu'est-ce qui se passe ?" _ Francis muttered, before looking at the figure of his son standing on Arthur's side of the bed. "Matthew? What are you doing up?" The boy opens his mouth to speak before the three of them are alerted to the sounds of retching down the hall. Francis is out of bed first, with Arthur and Matthew on his heels before standing outside the closed door and knocking softly. "Amelia?"

The only reply is a heavy groan.

Arthur looks at Francis for a moment before breathing in a heavy sigh, hand on the door knob. "Matthew, go back to bed. We'll take care of this ok?" Neither he nor France have to look to see the worry building up in their son's eyes, gaze flickering to the closed door before nodding and heading back to his room.

They step into the room quietly, only to be greeted by the light set on the dimmest setting. England turns it up higher, holding the shock in his throat at the sight of his daughter, curled on the cold bathroom tile with her body heaved over the toilet.

Amelia doesn't notice them at first, and she isn't even done vomiting the last vestige of her dinner that night before she feels fingers brushing the hair out of her face and rubbing in her back. A minute passes by before her stomach feels empty, and has resorted to only painful dry heaves. She spits into the porcelain bowl, wanting to gag at the taste of bile and the smell of vomit all over her.

_God, her head was on fire. _

"I'm f-f-fine," she managed to choke out, before somehow another wave nausea hit her and she bit back a groan.

"Like hell you are." England growls, and she winces at the sound of water being run in the sink beside her. Arthur lifts her up to her feet, but her knees only buckle and she slumps against him, still muttering her protests.

"I'll hold her." France offers, putting down the toilet seat and flushing. Amelia doesn't even feel the transition, her brain going back to cold nights and no sleep and _so much blood she was going to drown in it- _

Arthur wrinkles his nose at the sight of vomit stains on his daughter's shirt, passing her more securely to Francis. "Undress her. I'll get some new clothes." The nation nods, watching him leave before moving the girl to sit on the toilet seat cover and unbuttoning the front before easing it off of her frame. Arthur returns, setting the clothes on top of the counter and turning off the running water.

The both of them ease her up, keeping a steady hand on her in case she was going to collapse again. Amelia's hands grip the edge of the sink, trying to focus on anything else but the sickness in her stomach and the darkness in her brain. The cold water is a relief, and she rinses her mouth, spitting out the mixture of fluid and bile into the sink.

_She was pathetic. _

England expects the anger and moves her before she can do any damage to herself. She's back on the toilet seat, much to her dismay, before the new shirt was pulled over her head and her brother's pajama pants hauled over her hips.

The door is shut and the familiar click from the lock is heard before she realizes that there are only two of them are still in the bathroom. England is leaning against the closed door, vibrant green eyes trained onto her form. Amelia doesn't look at him.

"Why didn't you tell us?" She only scoffs at the question, running a hand through her hair.

"What's there to tell?" came the reply, but she wanted to scream into his face _everything I'm sorry but I already feel weak enough as it is I don't need your pity besides they're just bad dreams-_

She visibly flinches at the sound of England's hand against the countertop before he takes a deep breath. "Please, don't take us for idiots Amelia. You haven't been recuperating and you and I both know it."

The scar on her stomach _burns_.

Amelia's head doesn't even lift up and the words, though spat at the floor, are filled to the brim with bitterness. "You don't know anything. I am _not_ your colony anymore, Engla-"

"_You're still our child_, and I don't care if you like it or not. I-I'm tired of this Amelia, the secrecy, the lying, everything!" England stressed, running a hand through his hair.

"What do you want from me?!" Her voice breaks and grey eyes filled to the brim with held back tears glare up at her father. "D-do you want me to spill my guts to you like you're God, bend down my knees like it's some sort of penance?!"

"You hide and pretend that everything's fine, when by holding everything in you are killing yourself!" England spits and it takes all of her energy to stop the words from spilling form her lips of _yeah well maybe I want to die anything to get rid of the demons using my head as their own personal playground have you ever thought about that_

"I don't need you hating me anymore than you already do."

_Did she just say that out loud? _

The words themselves are choked out before she curls her knees up to her chest, and buries her head into them, trying to quell the sharp panic in her ripping her chest apart and her fingers buried into her hair trying to block out the sights and sounds

_Shiloh 23,746 _

_Antietam 22,717 _

_Chattanooga 12,491_

_Gettysburg 46,286_

England's hand grasp her wrists and releases the hold her fingers have in her hair before she rips out the tresses by the roots. His parental side is overcome by his anger at himself for not realizing this sooner and her own stubbornness of not letting any of them help her when she so desperately needed it. She's fights his grip but he doesn't let up and even though she's hiccupping and gasping amidst sobs and crying and _god damnit it's been six fucking months why couldn't she sleep without seeing every one of their faces _she still won't let up in her ways.

"Look at me." His voice is firm and calm and a part of her wants to listen but she knows that he'll only think her weak. Her gaze is set firm, eyes red and puffy and looking at the white of the bathtub beside them rather than on her father's face.

_"__Amelia Elizabeth Kirkland-Bonnefey, The United States of America, look at me this instant. " _The words are snapped at her and it's not without one hand holding down her wrists and the other gently grasping her chin and forcing her head to turn. She almost flinches under his intense gaze boring into her own.

"I-"Amelia begins, and _hates_ how raw her voice sounds before he silences her.

"Shut up. I am going to talk and you are going to listen, clear?" She only nods once before he begins to speak again. "Let's get something straight. You and I may get on each other's nerves, yell, hit, scream, throw things at each other, and let's not pretend that hasn't happened, "-_he had the scars to prove it- _and you are without a doubt the most hard headed, stubborn, ornery young woman I have ever known, and I may seem like the biggest asshole for not always appreciating that, but under no circumstances will I ever think you weak, pathetic, or less of a representation when you need help. _There is absolutely nothing you can do that will make me stop loving you, ever_. Nothing on this earth, in the entire universe that will ever make me not want you. Do you understand me?"

Amelia says nothing for a few moments, staring at him in utter shock and disbelief before he suddenly finds himself tackled with her arms around his middle and her legs straddling his waist as she sobs into his neck. _"I'm going insane." _The words are whimpered against his skin and he takes a slow breath, rubbing her back over and over. "This is worse than what actually h-h-happened and there's so much blood. They won't get up, they're all inside me-"

"It's okay. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere." England soothes, kissing the top of her head. He coaxes her head up as her sobs give way to only short gasps and whimpers a few minutes later. He wipes the tears from her eyes, relinquishing the hold her teeth had on her lip with the pad of his thumb.

Amelia blinks. _There is some lightness from the weight in her head._

She leans her head against her father's chest, hearing the warm beat of his heart underneath his shirt. England cracks a small smile, and she's so tired to even notice him hoisting her up against his chest and carrying her out of the now dark bathroom. The cool of her sheets is a relief and she's almost under as she moves closer to his warmth. England kisses her forehead, breathing the unspoken _i love you more than I can bear sometimes _into her and sinks down into the dark.

His presence was definitely a catalyst for her mending.

* * *

**Awww...that was me trying to be fluffy and failing miserably without the whole angst thing coming in. *sigh* Civil War you guys, not fun time. **

**Historical Note: The names said in the middle of this are specific battles that happened during the Civil War, and were also considered major turning points on both sides. ****Ok.. I'll cut a deal with everyone. If I get five reviews for Jigsaw, I will continue Chapter 6: Part I. Promise. :) PM me if you have any requests for what you want to happen with the FACE family next! **

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	11. Chapter 11

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

The nineteen year old doesn't meet his father's hard gaze, partly being too tired to lift his eyes form the floor and the other trying too hard to concentrate on quelling the constant ache within his stomach. The representation of Britain sighs, finger's drumming slowly against the windowsill as he turns back to staring out the window. England runs a hand through his sandy blond hair in frustration. He was just as tired as his wasting away son.

"Was it something I did?"

There was a resigned sigh to that, but he only guesses that Alfred made some indication of a head shake. Alfred's nails are scratching on the fabric of his jeans.

"You realize you can't keep on doing this." His nails dig into the skin of thigh through the fabric of his pants.

"You can't tell me what to do."

England pinched the bridge of his nose at the familiar words, trying to keep his own calm in front of his frustration and absolute fear, but failing miserably. He turns from the window to see Alfred getting up and watches from his place by the window, leaning against the wall. America bites the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger, and England winces at how painfully bony his fingers are now.

"I know you're scared-"Arthur begins before the boy whirls around to face him, eyes blazing.

"I am not scared and I _refuse_ to go to someone to talk about what I do and what I don't do. You don't think I know?! I hear about it _every single fucking day,_ 24/7, 365 days a year. _'Alfred what did you eat? Have you eaten? Isn't that a bit much? That's all you're going to have? __**Eat, eat, eat!"**_

He sinks down then, collapsing onto the low couch and buries his fingers into his hair and keels over to press his forehead against his knees. Arthur waits a few seconds before stepping forward, crouching in front of him.

"Alfred, sweetheart, I know it's hard," he soothed, coaxing the boy's head up with his hands.

"I want to listen, I do. But it's like there's this war going on in my head, and I don't know how to stop it." America sobs, before England has him in the circle of his arms, rubbing a hand up and down his back. He winces at the feeling of his spine protruding from his back.

"Please." The request is whispered against his hair. America only breaths a shuddering gasp.

* * *

***heavy sigh* This really isn't my best, but I had this thing in my head all day. Bear with me people. I promise I will expand on this but I only need a few more reviews until I continue Chapter 6:Part I. Think of this as the sad appetizer before the super yummy meal. :) **

**Writing Note: As much as I have seen and from what I've read, the United States has the highest rate of eating disorders in the world. Sad :( **

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	12. Chapter 12

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

_"Our country owed all her troubles to him, and God simply made me the instrument of his punishment."_

* * *

_April 26,1865_

She had been in the bathroom for nearly three hours now.

The concern was, of course, never-ending, but the patience that the both of them were supposed to be endowed with was wearing thin at the seams. For the allotted time, he had heard the water run in the porcelain container, shut off, drained, and then run back again.

The silence in the living room was deafening. Arthur's fingers twitched from where he sat on the couch, biting his lip as he determined his course of actions.

There is reasoning on one side of his brain, to wait and let her process, collect her thoughts and bearings before a host of her government came to their senses and started looking for her, which wouldn't occur for a while given the circumstances. And then there was the overwhelming urge to comfort, assure, to make everything better.

That couldn't happen for a while, no matter how hard he tried.

"Matthew's coming over. He'll be here in about an hour." France's voice is dull, and the only response from England is a hum, almost wincing at the sound of water being drained once more from upstairs. There was always a sort of silent connection between the two of them, something that grew over centuries of knowing one another, and something that was rooting him down to this spot due to Francis' stubbornness.

"She's hurting." England absentmindedly picks at the material of the couch to distract himself from the ache in his chest at the statement.

"I know." France replied, blue eyes flickering to the stairs.

The both of them glance at one another, and it takes less than ten seconds for them lift themselves off the couch -Arthur isn't sure who made the movement first- and moving up the stairs and down the hall to the closed door of the bathroom.

England opens the door slowly and the both of them are hit with a burst of steam.

The nation has made some movement in the bathtub, knees curling tighter to her chest and gaze set in the water, her expression empty and distant. The steam curled off of her skin and half wet hair. Arthur could see the drying mats of bloody hair from where he stood, not being touched by water.

France leans down to pick up her clothing off of the floor, trying to ignore the bloodstains scattered across the pale blue fabric, and sets it onto the counter while his husband moves closer to the girl, sitting down on the floor.

Their daughter's breathing is irregular.

"They're gonna be mad." The words aren't even directed at him or France, but muttered to herself and the water before Arthur clears his throat.

"It wasn't-"

"It was my job." She moves slightly, the scalding hot water threatening to spill over the tub and he can hear her spine click. "Stupid girl. Should have listened. Should have-"

"_Non_." The words are from France this time, sitting down beside England and reaching a hand out to turn the nation's face towards him. Amelia visibly winces at his touch. "It's normal, you know that."

"_It's weakness_, " she spits. Her arms move from around her knees to rub her hands up and down them, expression full of distaste. "_Je n'ai pas ressenti ce sale dans ans_. "

That hurt.

Both men look at each other as she turns her head from them again, gaze set firmly on the water. The bloodstains are still evident, scattered and harsh on her pale flesh. Her parents were not going to push her on this, but the matter needed to be addressed sooner or later, though she would have preferred the answer to be closer to never.

The shame was a constant, the fact that she couldn't do _anything_ no matter how much she wanted to.

England can practically hear the battle going on inside her brain, but says nothing of it, his hand reaching out to comb his fingers through her hair. She had yet to submerge herself, wash away the surface sins.

She smelt like death and remorse.

The action make her loosen almost immediately, only physically and he can feel the man's blood collecting underneath his nails. Amelia doesn't quite clutch herself anymore, leaning into her father's touch with a ragged exhale.

France turns to reach underneath the sink, rummaging around before finding and grasping a white pitcher from the dark space before opening one of the dressers on top and pulling out a comb. England is already rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

"I felt ugly." The words are dropped like a stone. "When it happened, I could feel it on my face. In my bones."

"Different." France corrected, dipping the pitcher into the too full tub. She watches his actions with little interest, blue eyes following the line of water as he rinsed out the container a few times.

"Powerful, changing. Never ugly. Not in this case." England pointed. Amelia looks at him, and he can feel the protest on her lips before she swallowed it. France passes the comb to England, whose fingers proceed to undo the matted clumps as he poured the hot water over them.

"How did you feel when he stopped breathing?" France asked quietly. She doesn't answer him right away and he grasps the washcloth on the rim of the tub, dipping it in the water and running it over her shoulder. There's a bruise turning purple near her neck, and an already healing cut running down her arm. She winces when he runs the cloth over it, clearing away the bloodstains.

"I didn't feel powerful."

"No?" That was England, fingers still moving. Amelia hums, trying to find the right word before it is hesitantly exhaled.

"I felt…_rewarded_."

"An eye for an eye." Francis notes, wringing out the cloth. "We're proud of you either way." She moves to comply with his actions, hand cupping her throat lightly and raising her face towards the ceiling as he poured the scalding water over her hair. England grasps the comb, running it through.

The whole process of combing out the combination of blood and gore took nearly thirty minutes.

By the time they were done, the water had turned to a delectable shade of pink and America watches it with slight interest. "Will Mattie know?"

"Of course he will." England says softly. The both of them have her hands in theirs, dipping two washcloths into the pitcher now filled with cold water. Her knuckles are bruised and bloody and she hisses through her teeth at the contact of cold on her flaming hands. "He won't have a problem with it, unless you want there to be one."

Amelia snorts, eyes closing as she breathed in and out. "I'll tell you one thing. Seeing the place burn like that was glorious."

France laughs at the statement, earning an eye roll from his husband. "And history will be none the wiser, hm?"

The statement itself puts a reality to the situation, and she hums again. Something in the room was lighter, though she couldn't exactly tell what. "Love hides a multitude of sins." Amelia breaths, resting her head against her knees as they finished.

England brushes a damp strand of hair from her face, sighing and leaning forward to press his lips against her temple. He could still smell the blood on her and the sense itself was comfort enough. "This wasn't a sin, love." The pad of his thumb wipes away a crimson spot on her cheek before bringing it to his tongue and sucking it off. Still slightly warm, with the metallic taste of rust and something that smells like her.

_"__Seulement une bénédiction " _ France says quietly, breathing the words into her as he kissed her forehead before moving to the door. Amelia blinks, looking up at the two of them with a somewhat dreamy smile on her lips. The pride spreads through France and England's chests like wildfire.

"Try not to fall asleep in here. Matthew coming in twenty minutes." England says and she snorts, leaning her head against her knees. "I know better than to drown," Amelia calls after them as the door shuts softly.

_She would be fine._

* * *

***sighs* I am strangely very content with this chapter. Hahahaha. **

**Yeah guys, America killed John Wilkes Booth. 'nuf said. Sorry if that wasn't terribly clear. She's not expressing distaste towards Lincoln, but more on the fact she had grown so attached to him only to have him ripped away. Sad really. By the way, guys, I only need a couple more reviews until I continue Chapter 6: Part II. No reviews=no story. And then everyone is sad. :( So get to it! Please. :) **

**Historical Note: April 26, 1865 was John Wilkes Booth's death. He was 26. **

**French Translations: **

**(1) "I haven't felt this dirty in years."**

**(2) "Only a benediction." **

**The quote at the beginning is a passage from John Wilkes Booth himself, found in his journals about the assassination of Lincoln. **

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	13. Chapter 13

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

"How long is this going to take?"

The air in the woods is only comfortably warm, surprising given it was the beginning of July, but a relief for the four nonetheless. Although warm, the sun was obscured by clouds, letting only dim patches of sunlight come through onto the forest floor. The twins shrug off their jackets, handing them to France who moves to put them into the car. It was worth it to give everyone some sense of level ground.

England doesn't answer Matthew immediately, and both of the younger nations watch in interest at their father's fingers as he rapidly loaded up the shotgun with bullets- _they were old enough for it now_\- and placed the safety off.

France comes back over, similarly doing the same process and straightening himself up. The Englishman lifts himself off the forest floor, cocking the gun with a sharp sound that echoed through the forest. Alfred looks around, and for a brief moment notes the extreme _emptiness_ of their surroundings before turning back to his parents.

England smiles. The calmness of the act makes him want to shiver. "As long as you can keep running."

They are gone as soon as he finishes counting backwards from five. France smirks, hoisting the gun up and over his shoulder before looking at his husband. "Give them a minute. It's their first time with the real thing after all."

"Don't worry." England reassures, hoisting the shotgun and taking aim amid the trees. "I'll be gentle."

The shot echoes through the forest.

* * *

They stay together for a while, moving quickly amongst the trees. Alfred halts, listening for a moment.

_How long? _

_Three minutes and twenty four seconds exactly. _Matthew winces at the fourth gunshot, somewhere closer to his brother's left. They look at each other, moving in separate directions.

* * *

He had forgotten how much it hurt to get shot.

Matthew tries to ignore the flash of white lightening creeping in his shoulder and keeps moving, turning around a tree only to feel the sharp pain of a fist connecting with his jaw. The pain is immediate, but he moves anyway, blocking another swing from England's arm and twisting it back before feeling his foot shoot into his shin.

Canada groans as his father's fist connects with his stomach, stepping back and managing to swing a blow to his shoulder and knee in quick succession, ducking another thrust.

The blood loss was beginning to be a problem.

He shoots a kick into England's stomach and ends up knocking the elder nation to the ground. He searches for the shotgun to see it kicked against a tree before he feels a hand wrap around his ankle and trip him off his feet. England is now on top of him, hands wrapping around his throat and squeezing. Matthew kicks up his feet underneath amidst the oxygen rushing from his lungs and pushes the man off of him and scrambles to his feet. He looks around to find the shotgun moving closer, before the familiar white hot pain imbeds itself into his right shoulder this time, a poppy stain of triumph staining his shirt and dripping to the ground.

He turns to see England coming towards him with the shotgun while France has America hoisted against his chest. His brother's lower abdomen is stained with red which only grows.

"Son of a-"

He doesn't even feel the butt of the weapon as he blacks out.

* * *

Nothing.

Not for a long time.

* * *

_His head was on fire. _

Matthew's mouth and throat feels like sandpaper and his eyes open blearily to find the surroundings of light blue walls. His head turns slowly, much to his body's protest and looks at the face of his brother. Alfred blinks at him before smirking.

"They can put up a fight can't they?" The words are practically croaked.

A low humming brings both boys to attention and Matthew slowly sits up, groaning at the fire in his shoulder. They are in their parent's bed. England is moving about the room, putting their soiled clothing into a basket whilst France looks up from his book, not a hair out place.

"Oh, good. You're awake." The smile on his face makes both of them want to scream with rage.

"You've been out of it for about two days. Just in time too." England says. France lifts himself up out of the chair as England grasps the emergency kit from the bathroom.

As confused and annoyed as they are, the change of bandages is a relief. Alfred leans his head against England's shoulder, hissing as the wrappings were pulled back. The tension was pulling at the stiches. England only croons to the boy as though he was much younger, placing the new bandages onto the wound, which had already begun to heal.

Matthew winced as France repeated the process with his shoulder, listening to the soft sound of French and English lull him back down into a drowsy stupor. His father fills his hand with the weight of pills and he swallows them, the cold water relief to his parched throat.

The parents card fingers through their sons' hair. Canada nuzzles his face into the warmth of his father's shirt, breathing in the faint scent of wine that made him drowsy just thinking about it. England presses a kiss into America's hair.

"Happy Birthday, boys."

* * *

**HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA...ha. _I have no idea where this came from_. Seriously. Parents, hunting your children and shooting them is not a sufficient birthday gift. At the very least get them a puppy or something _before_ you go hunting. My mind is an interesting place. I wrote this in like thirty minutes so that's cool. **

**Seriously, I have no idea. **

**I need more reviews for Jigsaw! Also as a personal self interest thing, tell me your favorite chapter, and favorite line or lines from said chapter! If you don't have any then just leave something that you enjoyed! Thanks! :)**

**READ AND REVIEW! :) **


	14. Chapter 14 (Chapter 6-Part II)

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

In the dim haze of his existence so far, England couldn't really bring himself to care whether or not the government official was giving prevalent information or not.

Unseen by the man sitting in front of them, rambling on about official business and news and matter of upmost importance, France's hand rests on his knee. A sign of reassurance at the very least. He had stopped listening completely at least ten minutes ago, trying to eyes from glancing now and again at the clock hanging on the opposite wall adjacent to his husband and entertaining himself with the lull of his own thoughts.

_Dear God, was war always this unnecessarily complicated?_

Even so, the both of the nations give an occasional nod or hum of agreement as the time passes on and words are tossed at them with not retrieval or return. France's grip on England's knee grows tighter as it begins to bounce up and down, putting a premature end to the noticeable action.

_We have five minutes left. _

_I thought you said that an hour and a half ago. _The words that invade the Frenchman's headspace are full to the brim with annoyance. Bright green meet dark blue for a moment, gaze challenging before the both of them sigh inwardly.

_Is this how normal parents feel? _England huffs, absentmindedly running his nails along the armrest of the chair from where he sat. France scoffs.

_I don't think we would even begin to categorize ourselves as anything in the realm of normalcy. But…I suppose the feeling would be on the same level. _

"-things in order. Thank you for staying with me through this whole thing, gentlemen." The words bring them back into the conversation at hand. Francis gives a warm, but tight smile, annoyance growing at his husband who couldn't really seem to do anything but scowl at the whole situation. Not that he could blame the less than cheery behavior.

The man stands, moving to the front of the door, papers that needed to be signed still cluttered on top of his desk as he signaled to one of the guards standing outside. "Call them in now." He steps out the door, speaking over his shoulder at the two nations before leaving. "They'll be here in a few minutes. I'm sure you're excited to see them."

_Try absolutely terrified. _Arthur thinks as the door shuts, leaving the two of them alone in the office.

"Another question to ask, who made the rules that parenthood makes one into nothing but a body of extremes?" The representation of France laughs at the question, tucking a lock of blond hair behind one ear. In the action, his sleeve moved up, revealing the lines of raised flesh that covered the skin of his wrist and disappeared underneath the fabric of his jacket sleeve.

His eyes flicker to his husband with a sad smile twinging at his lips. "You should be used to your own by now, _cher_."

The nation sighs, rubbing a hand across his face in pure and utter exhaustion. "I know. " Even at the mention of them, the thick patterns of raised flesh on his back seemed to burn like his own streets only three years previous. He flinches at France's touch on his back, rubbing slowly up and down in some effort of relieving him from the memories. "The boys-"

"Will love you regardless. You've been alive long enough to know that." The arms slips around his shoulders, holding him in a somewhat awkward embrace. Arthur lets out a heavy sigh, before reaching in his pocket and pulling out two cigarettes. The two of them watch in disinterest as he lights the both of them, handing one to France before taking in a sharp tar caked inhale before letting it out slowly.

"I don't feel alive. I haven't felt alive in years."

He can feel France's breath in his hair. He was pressing his face into it, breathing in the everlasting scent of tea and rain and books, before taking his own drag. "Neither have I. But, in the end, like everything else, it fades with time. And we just keep on existing." _For them._ He wants to add. _For the boys that we dreamed about every night after we cried ourselves to sleep when the screams became too much. _"I forget sometimes that they think us gods."

Arthur snorts. "You mean monsters." He slaps his forehead as if coming to a great realization before sitting up and turning to his husband, voice humorless. "Oh, wait. No, that's the same thing isn't it?"

"I don't understand why you would label us as monsters."

"I don't understand why you would label us as gods." England raises an eyebrow, smirking around his cigarette and taking it between his fingers to flick a few stray ashes onto the carpet. " If anything, we could say we are..._victims_ at the very least. We are the landscape for which human paint their own scenery, be it good or bad." He gestures to the nation's wrist. "You don't think to give yourself those scars until they hand you the blade after holding you over a cliff." The nation gets up, moving around the room before leaning against the wall near the window.

France watches with keen interest, gaze half lidded and exhaling another breath of tar. "Destroy, destroy, destroy. God wants us to preserve this body, when in fact the whole world is yelling, _'Kill yourself. Kill yourself. You would die for me, wouldn't you?'_

England scoffs. "And our people are the ones who think themselves fit to live amongst angels when in reality they still wander with Alighieri in that damned forest." He rolls in eyes in exasperation and keen annoyance.

France smiles, taking in a heavy inhale of smoke. "Everyone will eventually make their way to God."

His husband's gaze flickers to the half open window, eyes distant and voice cold. "Everyone but us."

* * *

If there was one thing that they could agree on, it was to never let this crippling self-hatred they felt at time to bleed out and stain both of the twins. That was never allowed. France sighs and he can feel both of their anxiety and nervousness spike up as minutes went by. The thoughts of regrets soon gave way to major impatience on both their parts and before he knows it, he's watching the Englishman pace up and down the room, muttering to himself.

"They'll be here." Francis reassures him, thought his own patience was beginning to be overwhelmed by the desire of seeing their children (properly this time) after so long. Arthur's vibrant green eyes flashed fire at the Frenchman.

"I want them here. _Now_." The words are practically snarled and he can see the underlying tone of _you understand the turmoil I'm feeling right now right of course you do I just want to see them that's it that's all god I didn't know that it would actually be this difficult seeing your children._

Exactly three minutes and forty seven seconds tick by before their ears pick up the sound of footsteps coming closer to the door. Something small in the back of both their minds doesn't want the door to open, doesn't want to see how the last five years have affected them, doesn't want to see their faces.

The door opens without a sound and as two pairs of eyes lock onto the nations into the office, both parents could feel one single emotion that played out from the mixture of love, fear, and overwhelming, absolute relief.

_Guilt. _

* * *

**YAY! YOU FINALLY HAVE CHAPTER 6 PART II! *dodges slew of angry cries and bullets* Ok, ok. _I'm sorry it took so long._ There. I said it. And lucky for the rest of you, I'll be continuing this soon, so yes. There will be a Part III. I couldn't just leave it on a sad cliffhanger. **

**I honestly feel like England and France would be extremely bitter about their own state of being after the Second World War. As we all know, it kind of sucks being a nation. **

**Anyone catch the reference to Dante?! *crickets* No? Just me? ...Ok then. By the way, the song that has inspired this entire fic, both Parts I and II has been _Ghost of You_ by My Chemical Romance. **

_**At the end of the world**_

_**Or the last thing I see**_

_**You are**_

_**Never coming home**_

_**Never coming home**_

_**Could I?!**_

_**Should I?!**_

***SOB* If you have any questions, comments, or concerns, please post in comments or PM me! I like getting messages. It's like a more whimsical way of commination. The faster I get reviews, the faster I update! Also, tell me what you enjoyed about the fic so far! **

**And as a special treat, give me requests for what you think should or what you think is going to happen! :) **

**READ AND REVIEW!**


	15. Author's Note

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

Hello, people! Guess what?! I'm alive and I'm sure many of you have been wondering, "where the hell have you been for the past month?" and all I can say to that is...writer's block sucks.

Sneak Peak just for you guys:

_The buzzing from the flickering lightbulb swinging vicariously on the ceiling was more annoying than the throbbing headache itself._

_ Canada leans his head against the stained wall of the cramped, one person bathroom, and stands there waiting for the sound of retching in the stall to cease long enough so he could talk. "It'd be nice if you could hurry this up." _

_ Another heave, and he winces at the sound of vomit being expelled from his brother's stomach and spilled out into the porcelain bowl. Matthew brings up a hand to run over his face, only to stop and stare at the sight of blood collecting on his fingertips. The crimson trickled from his left nostril. _

_ Finally, the toilet flushes and out stumbles the nation. The American runs a hand through his blond hair, leaning against the counter.. _

_ "You look like shit," Matthew states._

_America coughs and red suddenly spots inside the dirty sink. "Fuck…you."_


	16. Chapter 16

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

_April 1917_

"No."

The American bites the inside of his cheek so hard that he could almost taste the crimson burst forth and pool inside the cavern of his mouth. He could at least have the dignity to face him, turn around. But the usually vibrant green eyes that stained his childhood memories like a canvas now only focused on the glass of the window, his body turned slightly away from the nation standing on the opposite side of the low table.

Alfred adjusts the glasses on his nose for the thousandth time before clearing his throat, though the action itself did little to quell the growing frustration. The words, when finally spoken, are seethed through a gritted set of teeth and the sound only a bit over a whisper.

"I don't need your permission."

England snorts, green eyes cold as they glared daggers into his son. "Then why are you here?"

And there it was. The question that he had pushed to the back of his mind during the entire trip and even now, staring his father straight in the face, he couldn't really figure out the answer. At the very least, _the answer that he wanted._

"I deserve this." The words sounded weak even to him.

"You don't think I know that fact?" England has turned fully in his seat now, leaning back in his seat and America has to fight the urge to keep the anger from coming up once more and punching the blank look off of his father's face.

"I think that you're ignoring that fact," America deadpans. "But then again, what else is new?"

The anger in the elder nation's eyes is immediate. America can feel a slight tightening in his gut at the silent response before the reply is ground out from England, voice quiet. "I suppose you're right. You're dealing with an adult and I'm dealing with a stubborn little boy who still thinks war is a game."

The action from the younger nation is immediate, hands slamming against the desk with a clatter. England doesn't even flinch. "You son of-"

"And what do you think it will achieve? Comradery, loyalty? First rule, Alfred. _Do not get attached." _He cuts him off, raising an eyebrow before standing, leaning forward a practically spitting the words into his son's face. "If you want my permission, you aren't going to get it."

Alfred's nails dig into the wood of the table before pushing off and moving about the room. England watches his movements with growing wariness. It wouldn't help anyone if the boy started to attack him, but Alfred only glared daggers into the floor, muttering to himself in French under his breath. Arthur breaths a deep sigh, rubbing his eyes and wincing at the ache in the small movement.

"What would you do?" The question is quiet and he visibly flinches at the word's that spill from his son's lips before giving a heavy sigh once more. "If I left?" The nation's clear blue eyes look up to meet green only to find him arranging the papers onto his desk with increasingly frantic movements.

"As hard as it might be to believe, I'm like this-"

"Oh, what for me? Because you care?! Don't give me that bullshit!" Alfred snaps and the paper in the older nation's hand crumbles slightly, but somehow neither of them can stop the anger bursting forth. His head snaps up to glare fully his son, green eyes filled with rage.

_"__Don't you dare."_ Arthur snarls the words but the boy only continues, voice seeming to grow louder in the small office, blue eyes cold.

"N-no you don't care. You never cared because I was never good enough to be something of myself in the eyes of the great British Empire. Nothing I can do will ever be enough for you will it? There was always something wrong, something to be fixed, so tell me now, what is that you need to throw away-"

_"__For God's sake, I can't lose you again!" _

The silence that comes afterwards doesn't help either of them breathe, but somehow Arthur finds something in his lungs to keep him going, ignoring the look of confusion on his son's face. "Watching you walk out that door all those years ago _killed me_, Alfred. And I'll admit it; I hated you for doing so but you cannot understand the hate I felt for myself. You were the only thing that I hadn't fucked up in my entire existence, the one thing that I would do anything for, even if it meant crushing you the way I did."

He rubs a hand over his face, trying to block out anything but the silence that greeted him from the giant statement. The sky outside is grey, overcast with only a few drafts of sunlight coming through.

Same as his mistakes.

By the time he turns around, America is already gone.

* * *

**Salutations fellow readers! **

**I'm satisfied with this chapter, not in love with it, but meh. Funny, I kept of thinking how much easier it would be to write about Canada and America arguing over something entirely different than England and America arguing... Hahahaha. Meh. :) I'll probably be posting something like that tomorrow, so you guys are in luck! :) **

**April 1917: America enters World War I. My main concern was how to portray the struggle between America and England in the main concept of him _fighting with his men_, not just entering the war itself. They can't really do anything about that, unfortunately. ****Think of this chapter as a sort of warm up in a way. My brain is coming back to getting things together...so. :) Huzzah. **

**PM me or post in comments for questions or requests! **

**READ AND REVIEW! **

**I missed you guys by the way! **


	17. Chapter 17

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS **

_For Autumn _

* * *

_Part I_

"Should you be driving?"

The Canadian doesn't even respond to the words at first, fingers tapping absentmindedly against the steering wheel as he waited for the intersection to clear. Alfred leans back in his seat, crossing his arms as he looks out the window into the growing darkness of the evening.

"You could at least drink something."

Matthew snorts, rubbing a hand over his face. "Dude, your coffee is shit."

"Better than nothing."

Matthew only shrugs, gaze joining his brother's outside in the numerous cars as he turned into the intersection. The lights themselves were nothing but a blur of colors on both their senses and he blinks again to clear the sleep from his eyes.

_Dude. _The familiar shiver of electricity goes down his spine as his brother's thoughts invaded his headspace; the feeling itself they should have been used to after literally centuries, but nevertheless it only seemed to stay.

_God, Alfred. Don't get your knickers in a twist. _The bad imitation of their British father makes both nations snort with laughter as America grasps the cup beside him and downs the last vestiges of his coffee, wincing slightly at the bitter taste in the back of his throat. Matthew takes his own, actions repeated as the caffeine went through his system, albeit slower than either of them would have liked.

"Does it ever get any easier?" The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, floating through the small space of the vehicle. America doesn't look up from scrolling through his phone and in the dim light, the other nation can see how _tired_ he is. The bruises are barely evident underneath his eyes and almost invisible with his glasses on, along with a slightly pale pallor to his skin. As if to testament to the fact, the nation yawns, stretching out his long limbs like a cat in the small space before responding to his brother.

"No. Guess we're stuck in circle for the rest of our-"

"Ever existing lives?" Matthew finishes, earning an exasperated, but similarly exhausted look from his twin.

"I don't need you-"

"Finishing-"

"What-"

"You're going to say?"

The punch in the arm is nothing new and he can feel some sense of lightness in the weight of his brain and the whole day of meetings and talking and work and schedules and times when all they wanted to do was sleep and for once ignore the voices inside of their brains. The laughter is built up in their throats and spilling out into the vehicle, heads thrown back in some exhaustion filled bliss, blue eyes meeting the others for a moment.

_The lights themselves didn't even look that close. _

Canada feels his thoughts react before his body, gaze turning from laughter to confusion and shock as a screech invaded the air. Alfred turns his head around, a question on his lips before the headlights fill his vision. His head snaps back to his brother and his hand moves quicker than either thought possible to grasp his for a moment.

_Matt-_

The nation's eyes lock onto his brother's as the bright blue Honda slams into the side of their Prius.

* * *

**First off: Sorry this is so short! **

**Second: ****I would like a show of hands on how many of you hate me right now. *looks around* Well then, that's a bit more than I expected. Don't worry, I will be continuing this. I promise. Now that's the second thing I have to continue within _Jigsaw_ as from Chapter 6, parts I-II, the boys _still_ haven't seen their parents yet. Sad... :) **

**Third: All will come to a sufficient end. **

**Brownie points to anyone who can guess what song is for this chapter! No hints this time! **

**READ AND REVIEW!**


	18. Chapter 18 (Chapter 6-Part III)

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

_Not anyone I really know_

_Just another pilot down _

**_ Not the Red Baron_**|| Tori Amos

* * *

"Do you need something?"

England pauses by the doorway, green eyes glancing at the figure of his son, practically huddled on top of his blankets. The words are not tinged with sleep, as he had been hoping for when he came up the stairs, but something that sends a sharp twisting in his gut. The nation clears his throat, grip tightening slightly at the question before replying.

"You didn't eat dinner, so I brought something I thought-"

"Thanks." The response is more than curt, and Alfred wants to wince at the less than gentle way the plate is put onto the table. A part of him wants the elder nation to leave him with the darkening tendrils of his own thoughts, but it given the sounds of him sinking into a chair near his bed, that wasn't going to be happening any time soon.

Arthur notes the way the boy's finger's rub against the raised flesh on his opposite wrist and tries to push the reminder of his near loss with a shudder. The shifting in the chair makes the both of them flinch, and Arthur fiddles with the fabric of his pajamas before speaking.

"Do you need anything?"

_Why yes a feeling of safety, home, security without my government breathing down my neck along with some courage and something else than this hero complex that requires me to feel everything and save everyone when I don't even know myself and why weren't you there Dad why'd you have to look me in the face and lie to me that everything was going to be okay but it obviously isn't because I can't don't won't shouldn't will never sleep and Mattie gets panic attacks and guess what we can't take any noise anymore or light or cold or anything that reminds us that we're alive because it hurts too damn much to actually live-_

"I'm fine." The words scream_ lie lie lie lielielieliarliarliarliarliarliarliarliarliarliarliarliarliar_ so loud that even as sleep deprived and tired they both are, the signal of that fact plays itself right in front of his father's face

__is a mixture of emotions that he can't even begin to go through, so he and his brother stand awkwardly in front of the door and stare. Everyone can practically feel the tension in the air as he and his brother's eyes rack over their parents form._

_"Dad?"_

_America has no idea after hundreds of years how the childhood term seems to spill out of him but the sight of his father so worn and hollow and old makes him so scared he can't even think straight. He doesn't even notice he's said the word aloud, though the three occupants in the room almost missed it. England blinks, one, twice, and for a moment he swears he doesn't see the fully grown nation in front of him but rather the two year old colony wrapped around his leg begging him-_

'We'll be back before you know it.'

_He clears his throat._

_"You look well." He wants to wince at the hollowness in his voice. Both adults could hardly stop staring at these alien men in front of them. No longer boys, no, all of the softness in their faces gone. It was their eyes that made his breath catch in his throat and make it so tight- beautiful blue eyes replaced by empty opaque glass from which he could discern nothing._

_The realization made their hearts ache__

"Alfred."

The nation's back arches the word so quickly that England can hear his spine click. The white of his undershirt riles up slightly, and he has to lean forward slightly to see in the dim light of the room the expanse of a new scar, harsh and thick against the boy's lower back and disappearing upwards and underneath his shirt.

The words are not harsh as Alfred had thought they would be at his coldness, but rather tinged with something his fuzzy mind can't quite place. He doesn't even notice his nails digging into the flesh of his wrist until the older nation leans forward and gently dispatches his death grip.

The new scar _burns_.

America hoists himself up, struggling amidst his own emotional fatigue and the adult next him gripping his arms. He beats his fists against England's chest, trying to quell the frustration and sadness and fear and _goddamnit he said he would always be there why weren't you now?_

"Alfred! Stop it! You are going to hurt yourself!" England is not yelling, but his voice is raised enough in volume and firmness for Alfred to hear, but not necessarily listen to the instructions. The shaking is now visible, and before he can do anything about it, the boy is now trying to control the sobs racking his frame.

The protective nature is immediate and Arthur relaxes his grip on the younger nation's forearms to move himself off the chair and onto the edge of the bed. The position itself is somewhat awkward, with the covers twisted along the space of the bed itself, but he manages, pushing himself higher against the bedpost and gathering the shivering mass into the circle of his arms.

America only seems to cry harder when his parents begins to soothe him, wincing as he felt his hand slowly move circles up and down his back like he was a child. The betrayal was childish, he realized in the moment, but even so it was still present.

"I-I'm s-s-sorry." The words are hiccupped against his shoulder and England frowns in confusion, hand moving to run his fingers through the boy's honey blond hair.

"What on Earth would you have to be sorry for?"

_Everything. _

The realization of this makes the nation only poorly stifle another sob and Arthur can feel Alfred's fingers gripping the front of his shirt in a death grip. It takes a few moments before he speaks again, taking careful and calculated breaths as best he could.

"I was so s-sacred and so tired of t-t-trying to be the hero and you were right because I didn't know what was out there and god, I h-hated you for t-t-t-that-" America cuts off, the pain in his chest growing exponentially bigger by the second.

_Well why didn't God just kill him now and get it over with? _

'Guilty' wouldn't even begin to cover the emotions England felt at this moment, feeling the weight of his own fears and worries for that of his children placed even more heavily on his shoulders. But all he can do is hold him closer than he already did.

"They hurt me, and you weren't the-r-r-re I-"The words are sobbed against his shoulder as they sink into England's brain. His hand continues to run his fingers though his hair, pausing to press a kiss into the messy locks.

"I'm not gone, Alfred. I'm here, with you," he pauses to move America's body slightly, positioning his head so that it lies against his chest and before long America can hear the low drumming of his heart in his ear underneath the fabric of his shirt. "And that is never going to change."

"It's my fault. If I had listened to you back in '17 this wouldn't have-"

"Stop." England's voice is firm. "You can spend eternity thinking about all the 'what ifs'. If it had been up to me I wouldn't have let you walk out that door nearly two hundred years ago if I knew this would happen. But I did, and there's nothing anyone can do to change it."

America's breathing has gone down from gasps to hiccups. Arthur rubs his hand up and down his back before his son speaks again, voice quiet. "I haven't felt like this since Lincoln. Like a mad animal who needs to be put down." A wet chuckle burst through his lips, before breaking off in a small whimper.

England rocks him back and forth. "Don't say that. Not ever. You can't handle everything at once, you should know that. No one thinks you unable to do what you need to do, not me, or France, or your brother, or anyone else. And if they do, they'll have to come through me first. Not only are you stubborn, obstinate, and one of the bravest people I have ever known, but you are _my son_. And nothing is going to change that, do you understand me?"

A pause. And then a slow nod, before Alfred gives a small smile, a weak and tired one at best, but nevertheless a smile. "Yeah, Dad."

"Damn right, I'm your father." England says softly, breathing a sigh of relief at the low breathing that comes a few moments later. He removes the slightly askew glasses from Alfred's face and sets in on the nightstand beside the bed, smoothing back his hair with gentle fingers. "I'm going to protect you." The words are whispered in the now quiet room.

Even with the almost foreign moment of peace, he can still feel his own anxiety building up, the scars on his own back burning slightly as he moves quietly off the bed, pausing to press a kiss against the sleeping nation's forehead.

_Even if it kills me. _

The lamp on America's bedside is switched off.

* * *

**FINALLY FINISHED WITH THIS PRAISE JESUS. Guys, this actually took me forever to come up with a decent ending, but here it is! Finally finished with Chapter 6! **

**READ AND REVIEW!**

***whispering offstage* **

**What? **

***whisper whisper***

**You mean I have to do a reunion scene with France and Canada? **

***whisper whisper***

**Like...now?**

***whisper***

**_Damn it! _**

**Not going to lie you guys, but I literally forgot about France and Canada. Sorry any French/Canadian readers! My bad... *sighs* Ok then. **


	19. Chapter 19

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS **

_Summer 1734_

She loved to laugh.

The fact itself was apparent every time she did something, be it with either him or France or just by herself. The child seemed to enjoy everything, finding pleasure in the smallest of things, like eating her lunch, albeit quite messily, or just the larger aspect of life.

England laughed too, hunching over the girl from where she lay on the low couch with one foot in her mouth and gnawing lazily. The infant grins, a toothless smile full of gums, tongue and drool. The nation only chuckles at her small untidiness, taking out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping away the residue, coaxing the colony's foot out of her mouth.

"Your appendages are not for teething on, sweetheart," he croons to her before turning slightly. "Frog!" he yells over his shoulder.

The Frenchman appears out of the corridor, hands full with the girl's twin brother, who at the moment was concentrating on grabbing the cravat on his father's neck.

"It would be nice if you could not insult me in front of our children for once," he sighs. The nation only scoffs.

"Where's her pacifier?"

France shrugs, switching Matthew to his opposite arm. "How should I know?"

"You're her father."

"So are you. I don't even know why you're asking this of me, considering I was the one who had to get up at two in the morning because _someone_ was hungry. Isn't that right, _ma cherie?_" France croons to Amelia, leaning down to kiss her head. She giggles at the gesture, reaching out with two small hands towards her brother's face. Matthew laughs, similarly doing the same.

England takes the opportunity to get up and move about the room, opening and closing cupboards until he found the light blue pacifier.

"How did the meeting go with Henry?"

"George. For God's sake, is it that hard for you to keep my rulers straight?"

"Maybe if they stopped naming their sons the same damn name nine times in a row I wouldn't have a problem." France points out, trying to hold the squirming Matthew. England sighs, leaning against the counter. "Was he upset?"

"That she was a girl? Of course." The Englishman snorts, moving back over to his husband and children, before sitting back on the couch and leaning over his daughter once more, pacifier in hand. Amelia has somehow managed to get her foot back inside her mouth.

"You didn't do anything I'm assuming?' France asks, grasping Canada's hand with gentle, but firm fingers to keep the boy from strangling him. "_Arête, mon petit_. Do you want to choke me to death?" His hand digs into his pocket and pulls out his pocket watch, handing it to the young colony. Canada immediately begins to chew with vigor, prompting a small smile from France as he moves into the kitchen, shifting the child slightly in his arms.

England shrugs, coaxing the appendage out of Amelia's mouth, much to her displeasure. "No. Although I must admit, it would have been nice to put some sense into the man. He says I should be more focused on my duties and less focused on doting over some colonies."

France's eye narrow at the remark, bouncing Matthew up and down lightly as the baby continued to gnaw lazily on the pocket watch. His parent mutters in French, enough for England to know that it wasn't entirely polite towards his ruler.

"He's the king." England points.

_"Il est un idiot." _France mutters angrily. "I wouldn't mind going to war aga-"

"No."

"Longest was, what, 100 years? That's not much."

"116, you ninny. I wasted enough valuable resources on fighting _you_."

"Still won."

"Shut up."

Amelia is whining now with the lack of attention, foot moving up _again_ to put into her mouth before her father grasps it with one hand and coaxes the pacifier into her mouth with the other, hushing her from her small whimpers. He leans down to kiss her nose, prompting a shrill of laughter to bubble up from America.

England cocks his head at the young colony, who looks up at her parent with dark blue eyes and a smile that could brighten up any room as she sucks her pacifier. The nations sighs, smoothing back her strawberry blond hair before speaking. "You may not have been what was desired but that makes you no less dear to me. If you were a boy, you would have belonged to the king and all rulers after him. But you, my Amelia Elizabeth, shall be mine."

_Always._

* * *

**Well... that got unexpectedly cute. England being a legit dad. Cuteness!**

**French Translation(s)**

**(1): "My dear/darling/sweetheart"**

**(2): "Stop, little one!"**

**(3): "He's an idiot."**

**Historical Note:**

**England and France's banter is about the Hundred Years War. Pretty interesting piece of history really, even though it technically lasted 116 years, but meh. The One Hundred and Sixteen Years War doesn't sound as catchy I guess. Also, the current king of England at this time is George II. Shout out to my history teacher for giving me said information! **

**READ AND REVIEW! Also, leave in comments what you want me to continue next in terms of my stories! **


	20. Author's Note II

**Hello everyone! I am still alive don't worry! Felt like giving you guys a sneak peak of what's coming next in Jigsaw! Enjoy! :)**

_It wasn't anything from the outside of the house that woke him up. Not the rain beating against the window or the rumbling of thunder and occasional flashes of lightening that illuminated the house. No, it was the loud creak of their bedroom door and the small patter of bare feet against the floor._

_"You do it."_

_"No way. You do it."_

_The voices themselves were whispered quickly as if the individual couldn't get the words out fast enough. France opens one bleary eye, lifting himself up slowly only to be greeted with the sight of two pairs of eyes looking at him from the edge of the bed. Understandably so, as the twins faces didn't even reach all the way over the mattress. He steals a glance at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room._

**_1:45_**

_It seemed being a parent never gave one any breaks, even for sleeping. The nation rubs a hand over his face, blinking once, twice, before speaking softly to the two six year olds._

_"What are you two doing out of bed?"_


	21. Chapter 21

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS **

It wasn't anything from the outside of the house that woke him up. Not the rain beating against the window or the rumbling of thunder and occasional flashes of lightening that illuminated the house. No, it was the loud creak of their bedroom door and the small patter of bare feet against the floor.

"You do it."

"No way. You do it."

The voices themselves were whispered quickly as if the individual couldn't get the words out fast enough. France opens one bleary eye, lifting himself up slowly only to be greeted with the sight of two pairs of eyes looking at him from the edge of the bed. Understandably so, as the twins faces didn't even reach all the way over the mattress. He steals a glance at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room.

_1:45_

It seemed being a parent never gave one any breaks, even for sleeping. The nation rubs a hand over his face, blinking once, twice, before speaking softly to the two six year olds.

"What are you two doing out of bed?"

Alfred speaks first, lifting himself higher onto the mattress before managing to climb on top of the hope chest set on the end of the bed itself. Madeline follows suit. "We were.." he trails off, stealing a glance at his twin.

"Wondering what we were going to be doing tomorrow?" Madeline finishes, twirling her blond hair around one finger. France groans inwardly, but only blinks again in fatigue and disbelief.

"Whatever this is…can it please not wait until morning?" he asks.

"Well…it technically is morning, Papa. And-"One look from his father is enough to stop his ramblings before the figure beside France stirs.

"Bloody hell, frog. What are you doing?" Madeline and Alfred gulp as the real threat sits up, blinking at his children. "Why are you two up? France, why are they up?"

"I was just asking them the same question." France and England's eyes flicker back to the two of them. Before either could get a word out, another flash of lightening ran though the sky, illuminating the room in a sharp and sudden burst of light. The practical scream of fright from both Alfred and Madeline was clue enough.

"Ah, so you're scared of the storm." England muses, leaning back against the headboard.

"Are not!" The cries from the twins are indignant and immediately proven false another flash and rumble from the sky prompt them to scream again.

"Make it stop!" Madeline whined, covering her ears. The very sight of the action caused both parents to chuckle, to which she gave them a glare of annoyance.

"C'est juste une tempête, ma chérie. Il ne peut pas vous faire du mal. " France points out to his daughter.

"Si, il peut!" her brother cries out and it only take another flash of lightening from outside before both parents find themselves with a small person barreling into them. England can feel the young colony grasp onto his shirt with a death grip before Alfred's face is buried in his neck.

"What's the matter, love?" England hums, rubbing a hand up and down the boy's back. Alfred is quivering like a leaf against his father. The sight opposite to them is not fairing much better, with Madeline curled up against France, pressing her face against his shirt front.

"Nothing." The response is mumbled by the both of them simultaneously, muffled from where they pressed their faces. England and France share a look of amusement before returning to the task at hand.

"This doesn't sound like nothing to me." France says softly. "It's okay to be scared, you two know that."

"But you're a grown up, Papa. And so is Daddy and everyone knows that grownups don't get scared of anything!" The reply is from Madeline who lifts her head from her place against her father's shirt front. Alfred lifts his head to nod in agreement. Arthur and Francis give each other a knowing look before addressing their children again.

"I can assure you, we have many things to be scared of." England reassures them softly, running his fingers through his son's hair as he glances out at the storm outside. _Most involve keeping you safe. _He adds silently to himself, though France could feel the unspoken confession as much as if it were his own. "Besides," the nation adds, shifting the child in his arms slightly, "you two are too big to have a small storm scare you, right?"

His fingers dance alongside Alfred's sides for a moment, prompting a bubble of laughter to spring up from the young colony. Madeline smirks, leaning her head up to look at France. "Why does it make such scary noises, then?"

France smiles. "Well, the lightening says something to the thunder and the thunder answers back."

The response does not seem to placate either of the twins, giving another shriek of fear and burying themselves further into the blankets.

"Can we-"America starts.

"Sleep here?" Canada finishes.

The adults hesitate for a moment before the whines start up again. "Pleeeeeeaaaassseeeeeeee-"The sound is giving both elder nations a headache before England raises up his hands in defeat.

"Alright."

The sound of thank you and promises in both French and English is enough to make him almost immediately regret his decision. He casts a somewhat apologetic glance at his husband who only snorts before addressing his children. "This is a one-time deal, comprendre?"

The two heads nod. "Oui, Papa."

Both France and England doubt the message was understood completely, due to the scrambling to situate themselves in between their parents, a tangle of small arms and legs trying to find the right position. Both adults slip an arm underneath the colonies. Madeline's hair brushing against France's face whilst Alfred's head is against England's chest.

They fall asleep to the drumming of their parent's heartbeat mixed with thunder and lightening.

* * *

**UGGHHHH. **

**Come to think of it, why do I keep writing pure fluff if I don't enjoy it? Hm. Weird. Hello, everyone! I'm back! **

**READ AND REVIEW! :) **


	22. Author's Note III

**Felt like you guys needed something, so here's something I came up with earlier this week! Comment or PM me if you want me to continue it! **

_April 27, 1865_

The rushing seemed so heavy.

Like a blanket, the darkness seemed to encase itself all around her existence, that she scarcely heard the sound from outside, or the dimness of light coming through. Slowly, shadows began to fade and take shape into proper dimensions and she braced herself to look straight into the sun.

Instead, there was the pale interior of the ceiling.

Amelia blinks, once, twice, head turning slowly as the sound slowly bled back into her ears. The ticking of the clock in the corner of the room seemed to fill her head, enough that the slight headache began to form. Her fingers brush against the dark red blankets…of her parent's-

_No. Nonononononononononononononononononononononononononononononononononononononono-_

The panic and agitation sets in slowly, before it is a plummet of waves crashing over her and somehow she has managed to get out of bed, practically falling to the floor one hand reaches up to claw at the bandages secured around her wrists and her chest hurt so much that she couldn't breathe and the sound of footsteps running up stairs down stairs though the hall before history and sorrow come into the room her fathers lunging for her and something of a strangled scream rips out of her throat as arms wrap around her frame halting her movements while she can't understand why they couldn't let her succeed there was no point in keeping her here just to die slowly before the sorrow sets in from the adrenaline leaving her

France breaths in a heavy breath as the young nation's motions stilled, removing his fingers from the side of her neck. England leans his head against the mattress side from where he sat on the floor, heart racing.

His daughter lay huddled in his husband's lap, fingers curled into his shirtfront as she sobbed into his shoulder. France resumed the motion, rocking her back and forth and running a hand up and down her back before brushing back her hair and crooning soft French into her ear. Amelia whimpered, the sound sending a knife into both parent's hearts, though both were too tired to do anything now.

To do anything at all, really.


	23. Chapter 23

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS **

_For Fairygirl34_

* * *

The rushing seemed so heavy.

Like a blanket, the darkness seemed to encase itself all around her existence, that she scarcely heard the sound from outside, or the dimness of light coming through. Slowly, shadows began to fade and take shape into proper dimensions and she braced herself to look straight into the sun.

Instead, there was the pale interior of the ceiling.

Amelia blinks, once, twice, head turning slowly as the sound slowly bled back into her ears. The ticking of the clock in the corner of the room seemed to fill her head, enough that the slight headache began to form. Her fingers brush against the dark red blankets…of her parent's-

_No. Nonononononononononononononononononononononononononononononononononononononono-_

The panic and agitation sets in slowly, before it is a plummet of waves crashing over her and somehow she has managed to get out of bed, practically falling to the floor one hand reaches up to claw at the bandages secured around her wrists and her chest hurt so much that she couldn't breathe and the sound of footsteps running up stairs down stairs though the hall before history and sorrow come into the room her fathers lunging for her and something of a strangled scream rips out of her throat as arms wrap around her frame halting her movements while she can't understand why they couldn't let her succeed there was no point in keeping her here just to die slowly before the sorrow sets in from the adrenaline leaving her

France breaths in a heavy breath as the young nation's motions stilled, removing his fingers from the side of her neck. England leans his head against the mattress side from where he sat on the floor, heart racing.

His daughter lay huddled in his husband's lap, fingers curled into his shirtfront as she sobbed into his shoulder. France resumed the motion, rocking her back and forth and running a hand up and down her back before tucking her hair behind her ear and crooning soft French into it. Amelia whimpered, the sound sending a knife into both parent's hearts, though both were too tired to do anything now.

To do anything at all, really.

* * *

"How can you stand this?"

The words are breathed through the side of her mouth, but the man beside her heard them either way, eyes still trained on the actors at the bottom of the stage.

"I don't. It's terribly boring, but's better than Mary yapping in my ear all night long about how we should have gone." America holds back a snort of laughter while the side of Lincoln's mouth twitched up in a smile.

"I would have defended you." Amelia sighs, twirling her fan in her hand.

"Wouldn't make a difference, you and I both know that." He leans closer then, voice warm. "Besides, you already have."

Amelia doesn't blush as she thought she would, rather the gratification blooms through her chest at her leader's words. Lincoln smiles, dark eyes looking at her for a moment. "Don't be modest. You know it's true."

The seventeen year old bites her lip in contemplation before her eyes scanned down the rows and rows of people sitting below them, laughter erupting frm the audience as the actors preformed. The scar on her stomach aches slightly, and it's not from the restrictions of her corset. Lincoln leans back in his chair, hands folded and almost goes back to watching the play again before she speaks, voice quiet. "I think the men out there have done more than I ever could, sir."

"There you go again. Always giving the praise to someone else. So what if you're a woman in their eyes," he raises a hand to gesture at the throngs of politicians, the elderly white men giving bellows of laughter at each and every joke that passed from actor to audience, "that doesn't make you any less important to me." His hand grasps her gently, giving it a light squeeze. "You kept me alive. Don't forget that."

The smile that graces both their features is something to behold, and she leans towards him again, voice feigning shock. "And what will Mrs. Lincoln say of having such a gracious honor placed on someone else?"

Lincoln chuckles, giving her a quick wink. "She won't think anything about it."

The actor's voice echo through the theatre, _"-you sockdologizing old man-trap!" _The laughter is a wave through the entire theatre and for the first time in years she can feel the actual weight leave her chest and lightness in her head and real unfiltered happiness course through her-

There is something that sprays on her face gently, and she reaches up a hand to wipe it away only to see the smears of red on her hand.

Mary is the one to scream first, and then the entire theater, until the sound fills her ears and the hand in hers goes slowly limp.

* * *

He dies at 7:22 A.M.

* * *

"He's-"

"I know."

The words are hollow, with her back to her parents. France and England watch her move from the window to the fireplace, leaning down to poke at the embers of the dying flames. Her dress is noticeably darker in some places, the red of his blood staining the blue fabric. She hadn't even gotten changed.

"Amelia-" France begins, stepping forward. Both of them see the way she visibly flinches, along with the way she drops the poker and lifts herself up, fingernails digging into the mantle. It is enough for cracks to begin form.

"It wasn't your fault." England stresses, before her shoulders begin to shake and the both of them watch in growing confusion as the sound of _laughter_ reaches their ears. The intensity only grows before she speaks, words interrupted by burst of hysterical giggles.

"I think-_ ha ha ha-_ it would be b-best for you gentlemen to l-l-leave the premises. _Immediately_." Both nations open their mouths to object before she turns to them, gaze an offset of one eye normal blue and the other a cold grey. The Southern drawl bleeds into her words before she picks up the poker again, twirling it one hand.

"Amelia. Listen to me-"England begins before she cuts him off, voice strained.

"Daddy, I'm asking you nicely. Get the hell out before I shoot you both."

Matthew doesn't even look at the two of them before he replaces their previous spots, closing the door behind him as the two nations stand outside the hall.

The sound of her laughter as now turned into sobs.

* * *

Smothersmothersmothersmothersmothersmotherthewholeplaceisburningbutshekeepsonpuchinghimbloodonherclothesinherhairmurdermurdermurdermurderkillkillkillkillhewillpayforwhathedidbleedlikethemanshecouldn'teverthankkill thefuckingsonofabitchagainagainagainagain

* * *

It's kind the way her parents don't ask questions.

Amelia sometimes wishes they did.

* * *

_\- haze she feels so light and full of air and free of everything as the lifeblood drains from her curling in the water like some surreal painting until there is shuffling and noise and she is on the floor, half garbled protests coming from her mouth as he is above with violet eyes so scared why was he so scared and someone is pressing down on her arms but she can't have it be like this she had the right to die if she wanted to stay awake stay awake stay awake-_

* * *

The second time she wakes up, she is on the bed.

A man she does not know is holding something cold to her chest, the sound of her heartbeat drumming through her ears-or is it the whole house- before childhood green eyes come into view.

"I-" America begins.

England only hushes her, smoothing back the hair from her face. "I know."

Something of a buzzing in the back of her brain and she reaches out to her brother, all starlight and dreams before there is the sound of a door opening with three voices at the end of the hall. Canada doesn't even sit, rather moving onto the bed and turning her so she faces him.

Her head leans against his as he grasps her hand, and the guilt and fear and grief is so tangible it almost makes the both of them choke. Amelia can feel his heartbeat underneath her hand as Matthew lifts his head to press a long kiss against her forehead. _Don't ever do that to me again, do you understand me? _

America opens her mouth to speak, only no sound comes out. But the attempt is enough to communicate the words to him before she buries her face into his neck.

_Mattie?_

_Hmm? _His fingers are running through her hair, the action itself almost enough to make her fall asleep.

_When he stopped breathing-_

_He knew, Ames. Believe me. _

The 'thank you' sat on the back her throat and she feels Matthew's fingers wipe the blood off her cheek.

* * *

**THIS. **

**FIVE HOURS PEOPLE. I'M NOT KIDDING. **

**Ok...so this might be a confusing turn of events, but I...yeah. Basically her kind of absolute snapping after the assassination of President Lincoln. Goes after John Wilkes Booth, kills him, tries to kill herself, fails. It's a difficult turning of events and difficult to write about in and of itself. **

**Historical Notes:**

**The joke that was said during the play that Lincoln was attending was the one he was in the middle of laughing from when he got shot. Apparently he still had a smile on his face when he slumped over. Also, the "she won't think anything about it," are the actual words said to Mrs. Lincoln by her husband. These are apparently the last words that he ever said. **

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	24. Chapter 24 (Chapter 6-Part IV)

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS **

His eyes hadn't left the figure of the nation sitting at the table for the past five minutes.

France pointedly ignores the searching gaze of his son from where he leaned against the corridor framing of the space separating kitchen and living room. His fingers trace the wine glass rim in front of him before picking it up and swaying it vicariously in his hand.

"I often wonder why we have children."

The words were almost dead coming out his mouth, like a crashing statement of fact and not a matter of guessing or questioning. Matthew doesn't even blink, folding his arms across his chest. France breathes in a sigh before taking a slow sip of the blood colored Merlot in the glass. "I've come to a conclusion that some point in our lives we realize how screwed up we are and that's it's too late to fix anything or do anything about it. So we make these… carbon copies of the people we wish we were. We want someone to get it right this time. Someone who doesn't make the same stupid mistakes we did in the past. But not for me."

Dark blue eyes flicker over to Canada, tinged with the drowning effect of wine and past sins. A small smile lifts on the corner of his mouth. "Personally speaking, it was a thrill to watch the world try and tear you apart."

"You're one to talk, France." The words are cold and clipped from the Canadian's tongue. A dry laugh spills from the nations lips, before it is swallowed down along with the sip of wine.

France breathes a sigh and leans back in his chair. "If you have something to say, then say it."

"Who said I have something to say?"

France's fist connects with the table so fast and so hard the bottle of wine rattles slightly. "Don't give me that bullshit, Matthew!" He rubs his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose before exhaling slowly. "I swear to God, you're just like your father."

"Better him than you."

"Oh, so this is about me, is it? What kind of grievance is it now, hmm?"

Matthew leans back against the wall, head tipping back to gaze at the ceiling and study the bumps and crevices of the space. "I'm tired, okay? I'm tired of you running away a-and disappearing like you think you're some kind of ghost. Because you aren't, okay? I am tired of people leaving and not coming back."

"If you had the brain capacity, you might realize that we just ended a war, with millions of people who left and aren't coming back. So I think that you might want to get used to the fact that not everything can be the way that you want it to be, okay? Not everyone is as lucky as you."

Canada snorts. "What the hell are you talking about?"

France slams down the wine glass hard enough for the minuscule amount of liquid sloshed in the container, threatening to spill. "_This_." He rises halfway from his chair, hand curling on the back of it as he faced his son. "You and your damn naivety. You're so clean and pure and untouchable and you don't understand how much I hated you for it. How much I hated you for making me love you enough to hide the demons inside my own brain _for you._" He spits the last few words and Matthew can feel the anger building up inside of his chest.

"That's not my fault, you know that."

"There you go again, with the pathetic resilience. What? Did you want me to come back a hero? A god that fixed all of your fears and troubles? Tell me, where did you get that from?"

"From you, asshole." Matthew hisses before pushing off from the wall. "This pathetic resilience is built up having to watch you leave me _again_. Watching you walk away _again_. _Again and again and again and again and again."_

France sighs, the sound heavy and his hand lifts up as if to reach out to the livid nation in front of him. _His son_. The very thought of those words left an imprint on his brain, burning, and a sickness in his stomach. His eyes, full of fatigue and slow intoxication, didn't miss Canada's flinch. "I had my reasons."

Canada didn't know whether to leave now or punch him in the face.

His fingernails dug into his palms from where his hand rested at his side. France downs the last remains of the liquid in the glass and is in the middle of reaching for the half empty bottle again before his son hand shoots out to grab the object from him, banging it onto the table. "You had your reasons?" The words are whispered before Matthew continues to speak, voice shaky. "You had your reasons for being occupied? For being a coward in the face of battle? For the blade that you dragged across your skin so many times because you couldn't handle the things inside your head? For the boy you left in New England so you could prove Britain wrong, the boy who wakes up in the morning to find his father gone without so much as a single word?!"

"You know exactly why I couldn't come back!" France is somehow on his feet, and the pure rage and fear coursing through him is so palpable Canada could feel it from where he sat. The wine glass on the table rattles slightly from his sudden movement. His hand runs through his messy blond hair in agitation, dark blue eyes on fire. "You don't understand what it was like for me. Knowing every time I walked through a door, he would just be sitting there, so fucking dissatisfied and never saying a word to me like everything was peaches and rainbows and nothing I did, no matter how hard I tried to save our marriage or my rulers or my people-nothing worked." His hand rolls up his shirt sleeve revealing the countless rows of raised flesh on the pale skin of his arms. "I couldn't let you see this. I owed you that much."

"Owed me? The only thing you ever gave me as a payment of this so called debt was your ability to push things down. Your ability to hide and lie and watch everything fall to pieces and not be able to do a fucking thing about it because you hated me enough as it was."

"You know that is not true. I loved you Matthew-"

_"__M'as-tu abandonné ! "_ The shattering of the wine glass barely misses his head and for a moment he wonders how Arthur can't hear it, given the spaciousness of the house itself. France's mind is brought back to present at the sight of his son, now crouched on the floor of their dining room, shoulders shaking with sobs.

Even after all this, he can still feel the ache in his chest rip a fresh wound at the sight of his child like this and leans down to his level, brushing the boy's hair from his face. Something of a whimper picks up in the back of Canada's throat and despite his better judgement, he finds his forehead pressing against his father's shoulder. "J'ai pensé que vous me détestiez."

The words themselves are like a dumping of ice water on his head and France blinks, wrapping his arms around the shaking nation. "Not even God Himself could make me do that."

Canada breaths in a shuddering breath, before exhaling just as shakily. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for. Even if I gave you all the apologies in the world, it wouldn't make up for the hell I've put you through." Something of a dry chuckles comes up from the statement as it makes its way past his lips and out into the world.

"-e g'ass" The words are mumbled sleepily into his shirt, and France rubs a hand up and down his son's back.

"You think I give a damn about the fucking wine glass? You should sleep."

"-m not t'red."

"Don't argue, we've had enough of that tonight don't you think?" He makes a move to lift the boy off the floor before his fingers press once more on the back of his neck. The result is immediate, a slumping of his body position before hoisting him up against his chest. The new scars on his chest screamed in the effort.

Matthew's hand curls on the front of Francis shirt. "Will you stay?"

The question makes his heart ache and even as he presses a kiss to the nation's forehead he can hear the never-ending chorus of _liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar. _

"Of course."

* * *

**Well then. **

**Hello people, I am alive! This was hard to write and even harder to come up with an idea of how it was going to play out. I don't like the ending as much as I hoped for, but it's pretty good considering it's nearly one in the morning here in Washington. Hahahaha. Although, it was fun writing out their argument and how in a weird way it isn't fully solved. the same goes for England and America. Sad really. **

**French Translations:**

**(1) "You abandoned me!"**

**(2) "I thought you hated me." **

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	25. Chapter 25

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA: AXIS POWERS **

_Adieu, mon bon pays _

_Adieu ma Nouvelle France _

* * *

Versailles, 1770's

He should sleep.

The thought passes through France, from his brain and down his spine, before shooting out to the rest of his body, but even then the growing jumbled nature of his thoughts seemed to take claim over any other action that would have previously come easier to him.

Previously.

He takes another drag from the cigarette, the smoke filling his lungs with a harsher burn and only a small cough and pain in his shoulder is enough to make the already smudged tunic spotted with some red. Bastille. Couldn't have been anything else.

Violence didn't seem to be anything else but in him these days.

He takes in another drag, and the arm near the dresser reaches from the bed to grab the bottle of red wine, half empty before frowning at the empty space. A sound catches his ears, and he turns to see her beside him on the bed, violet eyes with an almost bored expression as she poured the liquid into a glass.

"Qu'est-que tu fais, Papa?" Her head turns to regard him.

France blinks. And then swears.

_Dieu, whatever you are doing I would be grateful if you could stop. _France thinks, rubbing his eyes and hoping for her to just go away, but she stays, bare feet thumping against the mattress.

"What do you want?" he spits.

"It's not polite to answer a question with a question. You've drilled that into my head enough times." Madeline points out, tucking a lock of hair behind one ear. Francis moves off the bed and over to the other side of the room, pausing to once again wipe at the blood from his mouth. The dark night showed nothing from when he looked out the window, except in the distance to the north where he could see the light of fires and faint cries of citizens.

His citizens.

"If you're expecting me to make a choice, you know that I can't." he says. She leans against the wall, one hand crossed over her chest while the other swirled the blood red liquid in the glass.

"You already made one."

The accusation is anything but subtle, only hidden by the dead tone in her voice and for a moment he wants her to do something, cry, scream, hit him, break him for the way he broke her but all he can manage is a slight wince.

"I never meant to-"

"Of course you didn't. You and him both, the two of you never _do_. You just forget about the ones in the middle is all. And you'll use anything to prove a point."

She takes a small sip of the wine, grimacing at its bitter taste as the older nation stares out the window before sighing, running a hand through her hair. "But with things that can't be fixed, see what you can do here."

"I don't think I'll be able to forgive myself for anything I do from now on." His voice is quiet, and her eyes flicker down to see his left hand twitch. His arms itched for something sharper than his own self-loathing.

Her hand brushes his, holding the glass between both their hands as she looks at him, violet eyes studying blue.

"Neither will I."

He bites back a sob when the glass shatters to the floor where she stood.

* * *

**I don't even know you guys. I honestly don't. Broken hearts and confusion all around. Kind of wanted a more bitter relationship between Canada and France, so what better way than hallucinations and representations of guilt and okay I may still not be over Hannibal 3x02-don't blame me. **

**Anyways. **

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	26. Chapter 26

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS **

Dear God, she was going to kill him.

She knows he's entered even in her half conscious state, door squeaking slightly and his quiet curse before the slight growl from the giant polar bear on the floor beside her bed brings her into some place in the waking world. The real question was, how the hell did he get a key to actually get inside of her hotel room?

She shoves that to the back of her mind and sinks further into the pillow before actually groaning in annoyance as his finger runs up and down the sole of her foot. She catches him in the shoulder with so much strength he actually tumbles to the floor and almost onto Kuma, before setting himself up and muttering an apology underneath his breath. America moves past the mass of white fur and sits down on the edge of the bed before speaking.

"Psst. Maddie, you awa-"

"You have exactly five seconds before I kill you." The words are muttered into the pillow and thick with sleep but that infernal smile grows on his face at her words.

" I got something to show you."

"Whatever it is, can it not wait until tomorrow after the-"

"No of course not don't be ridiculous." The rush of words makes her raise one eyebrow, eyes opening fully and she turns her body to lift herself up in bed to fully regard him in jeans, dark t-shirt and hoodie.

The puppy dog look on his face is almost enough to make her either break or want to break him. And she should go back to bed and tell him to leave and tell him to forget about it and don't bother me anymore I want to sleep.

"Give me five minutes."

* * *

"Okay, this is ridiculous." she says as he parks the car, looking around at their surroundings and seeing nothing but the hills and trees surrounding them before he steps out, humming underneath his breath. "Where the hell are we?"

"You ask too many questions, Maddie. Where's your sense of adventure?"

"My sense of adventure died when we were six and I almost broke my arm climbing up to get you out of a tree." she snaps, grasping his hand as she exits the vehicle. She snorts at the laugh that comes from him at her statement before he's behind her and putting something over her eyes. "Excuse me, what the hell-"

"Chill, Maddie." The exasperation in her brother's voice is almost tangible and she puts in a few more protests before giving up, her world going black and walking forward with his hand in hers.

"I can still kill you, you know." she says as he opens a door. It's much colder than the warm July night outside and she uses one arm to rub some heat into her body.

"Yeah, yeah. Steps here." America says. It was amazing how much she could actually put up with him at times. It's about two minutes of climbing before he stops, holding open a door and pushing her in front of him. He steps away from her, moving to the other side of what she assumed to be a massive space, and she hears his fingers moving across a keyboard.

"What are you doing?"

"Spoilers, Maddie." America singsongs, and if she could roll her eyes, she would be doing so. Rather the sound of something moving back overhead catches her attention and she tilts her head up and back despite the obvious blockage to her senses. America chuckles at the sight, waiting for the overhead compartment to finish setting before speaking again, voice softer in the night.

"Ok."

Her fingers move to the back of her head, untying the fabric from across her eyes as she speaks. "This better not be some-_oh_."

The sight itself was clearer than she expected and the breath catches in her throat and the endless expansion of stars in the sky, some clearer and sharper than others in the light of the moon overhead, spots of white creation spilled across the universe.

"You can't see them better anywhere else." America says from his place across, leaning against the wall with a bemused smirk on his face as she turns around, gaze still fixated upwards. He pushes off from his spot, arms crossed over his chest as he moves across the room to her, not that she really noticed. "I came here a lot after '72 and the obsession didn't die so...yeah. Owner lets me use it from time to time, for a price of course. But since it's your birthday she was willing to make an exception."

She doesn't answer to that at first, still gaping at the massive expanse across the sky before her words come out. "You did this for me?" Violet eyes finally look from the sight above her to catch her brother's gaze, who seems almost embarrassed as he scruffs his feet against the floor.

"Yeah I mean it's not that hard. Not to say that you aren't worth the effort because you totally are but since scheduling with meetings and shit wasn't working I had to drag you out of bed at like 2:00 in the morning just to-"

Her hand covers his mouth to stop his rambling, as adorable as it actually was despite her sleep deprived brain and raises an eyebrow.

_You felt the need to overstate with me? Of all people?_

He shrugs, and laughs at her fist connecting with his shoulder soon after he licks her hand that was covering his mouth. "You're an idiot," she hisses.

"But I'm your idiot," he sings, and grabs her wrist, bringing her arm upwards to cover over her eyes once more, despite her groan of annoyance. "Don't complain or else, you'll ruin the surprise," Alfred warns and she sticks out her tongue at him as they step to the side and she finds herself being sat down at a table before her arm comes down.

Maps.

Charts.

Stars _littered_ across pages and pages as she flipped through the massive book, eyes pouring over his drawings of night sky after night sky, the dates spanning father and farther from where she sees them written out neatly on the top of the page.

**January 17, 1997**

Cassiopeia

Ursa Major

**April 3, 2003**

Gemini

Little Dipper

Orion

**September 24, 1986**

Big Dipper

Ursa Minor

Each constellation drawn in and the points seen highlighted in pen and it's then that she notes her birthdate and name written in almost perfect calligraphy at the top of the page every year, standing out against the stark white of the pages.

"When did you-"

"You think I spent all that money on NASA and didn't pick up a few things? I prefer the hand method to computerization anyway, you gotta be more careful with where you place things." America chuckles, running a hand through his hair before leaning against the table, arms crossed over his chest. "I hope you-"

"'Like' isn't even the proper word to describe my feelings right now, even though I am dead tired." Madeline cuts in, taking in a deep breath at the sudden tears that welled in her throat as she looked again that the pages. "You did this every day?" she asks in disbelief and he hums, smile wide.

"Tried to at least, and if I couldn't, then I calculated the nearest estimate to the nights previous, depending on where I am. We need another one though," her brother says, and with his words, she turns to the later pages of the massive book, and he fishes in his pocket, eventually finding a pen hidden in the recesses of his jeans and leans over her shoulder, carefully penning in the date and her name at the top before stepping back as she stands.

"Keep going or you can stop here if you want. I mean I can always add in more stuff for you because it takes a while to actually get the hand of charting out these things without the high tech equipment NASA has and believe me this does get tiring after while. I mean, not to say that you couldn't handle it which you totally can I mean you can handle a lot of things better than I can at times-"

He cuts off at her arms encircling his waist, squeezing tightly and firmly and he wishes that she could understand how untouchable she was to him at times and he buries his face into her hair, breathing in the scent of sleepiness and dreams and starlight before the words come spilling out of him full to the brim of genuine apology and regret and wishing he hadn't been so blinded by his own ideals and fears and needs at the time.

"I love you."

She squeezes him tighter at that, lifting her head from where it rested against his chest to look at him with a slight smile before he speaks again. "You know, all this celebration with middle of the night adventures has got me in the mood for cake."

She snorts. "I doubt that Fred Myer is open at 3:00 in the morning, even for the United States of America. Come on," she stretches upwards slightly to kiss his cheek and maneuver past him to grab the heavy object let on the table, "we _do_ have work tomorrow," she points out when he whines, giving a cry of protest at his keys in her hand. "To the car."

"No fair."

"You drove me here, remember? Mr. Midnight Adventure?"

"I'm the night owl Maddie, as much as you are the moon for me, I'm not trading off my nocturnal habits for one day. Besides, friends don't let friends drive sleep-deprived," America points the words close to her person, body leaning down to press his face into her shoulder and she hoists the book in one hand before the other moves to run through his hair.

"I'm not your friend, flyboy," she corrects and he only hums, lifting his head with those searching eyes of his and that damn smile that seemed to be able to make her feel better about anything.

"Of course not. You're my sister," he presses his lips against her forehead for a moment, breath cool against her skin as he says the words. She almost doesn't notice as he steps away the glaring emptiness of her hand and he's twirling the keys on one finger with that wicked grin of his that made her want to simultaneously laugh and punch him in the face. "And that's a good enough reason not to let you take over a car. Of course, knowing you," his hand runs down her arm, linking their fingers together before kissing her forehead once more, longer this time as a sense of a poor pardon for his actions, "you forgive me eventually."

He holds open the door with a laugh as she punches his arm though the words still ring in her brain as they exit.

Yes, forgiveness with him seemed as constant as the stars.

* * *

**I'm back. **

**With sibling fluff. Hahahahaha :) **

**Song for this adorable piece of fluffiness: **

_**Feasts of Starlight **_**by Howard Shore . Even though I'm not a fan of the Hobbit movies, still love the music used for them! Genius. Here's the link for anyone who'd like to listen! **

watch?v=-gbWL7MJ_kI

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	27. Chapter 27

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

He mentions it on a Tuesday.

It's raining, and the two of them sit in Matthew's car, waiting for the lights to change at the intersection in a rare moment of silence before the words of "advancement placing" enters into the quiet space from his brother's mouth.

"Would you like to be more specific?"

America shrugs, leaning down in the passenger seat slightly as he stares out the window and for a flash of a second Matthew can practically see the words in his brother's brain of "he'll think you stupid" and gives him a slight smile, along with a warning glare of even thinking of doubting him for a second. Alfred uncoils from his hesitant positon and turns his blue eyes back onto the road in front of them.

"It's a branching from Congress as a new technique to train potential workers in my government. They'll say it'll make passing things and coming to conclusions on bills a lot faster." Alfred explains.

Matthew nods his approval. "Do they want anything from you in the meantime? This is obviously new, right?" The light in front changes, and he takes his foot off the break and onto the accelerator to move forward and turn into a new line of road. Alfred hums, fingers moving up to his mouth to chew on his nails, before his brother's hand moves from its place on the steering wheel to stop his actions.

"I wanted to see how it worked first before they let it known to any potential takers. It won't take long, two weeks at the very least."

He gives a quick look at his sibling, blue eyes curious. "What do you think?"

Matthew pauses for a second, contemplating the course of actions before the words come out. "Go for it."

_Go for it. _

_Go for it _

_Go-_

* * *

The letters stop coming on a Tuesday.

It's been two weeks, four days, thirty seven minutes, and a part of him wonders where he got this sudden paranoia from. He relays the news to his parents, a bundle of hidden nerves and fear as to exactly why in the world his brother would be talking of places they've never been, people they've never met, experiences that had never happened. History and sorrow are more kind with dark blue and green eyes that stain his childhood than anyone at his brother's office, who come with the same blaring words of 'No, Mr. Jones is not in the office, can I take a message?'

It's been three weeks, eighteen days, forty five minutes, and he feels like a times the situation is happening to someone else. Like someone took out what made Matthew Williams himself and walked around like a ghost in his body. He wakes at night and the confession comes in a shaky rush of French to his parents at two in the morning that he can't feel Alfred anymore.

It's been four weeks and-

Seven weeks and it's like his entire government has been shut up with no warning and

Ten weeks and it takes more threatening than not to ask everyone at the world meeting if they had anything to do with his disappearance and it's been like hell

Thirteen weeks and Canada swears God is playing some sick joke on him at the ringing of his phone at two in the morning with the rush of "tickets, package, _we found him_, plane" before he's finding himself out of bed and on a plane to Massachusetts.

Their various homes across each of their land masses have specifics as a sort of "family house" and he drops his bag at the door with a polar bear wandering into the living room and making quick work of chewing the furniture and moves up the stairs with the idea of relief and "dear God, I'm going to murder him" before stopping at the sight of his brother in the bed, chest rising and falling with England's fingers running through his hair.

France's eyes meet his son's and he almost doesn't catch the object tossed to him, the black video with the scrawling of **A. Jones- Session 1** on the top in the white space.

* * *

**A. Jones Session 1 Excerpt**

_"-And you like school?" _

_The nineteen years old smirks slightly, granting a small chuckle from the unseen man whose back is only partly seen from the camera. "Or whatever you would do when not working."_

_Alfred nods. "I do," his brow furrows slightly before the words come out, "sometimes, things move a little slowly for me."_

_"I imagine they do. What's your favorite subject?" _

_"I'm finding physics a challenge." _

_"You're in the graduate program already." The man sounds slightly surprised. "Top universities," he checks the files in front of him, "Harvard, Yale."_

_"They call me little eagle." America says with a smile. The irony is almost palpable. _

_"Do you think they're jealous because you're so young?" The man uses air quotes around the last word, granting a laugh from the boy in front of him before sobering. He rubs the back of his neck, before adjusting his glasses. "Walter is a little. He plans to become very important."_

_"Did he tell you he was jealous?" _

_"Oh no, I just-"_

_"You feel it."_

_America cocks his head. "People tell you things all the time without talking. The way they move. The way they aren't talking."_

_"You're very intuitive."_

_"Mattie says I was born with half a third eye, saying he got the bigger half. I guess he's right about that, though. To be honest." It's as if the very mention of his siblings brings something warmer to his face. "He hates it when I say what he's thinking." _

Canada flinches at the mention of his name.

_"Your brother-"_

_"Twin." _

_"You prefer that?"_

_America shrugs. "More natural I suppose. Two before anything else was assigned, right?"_

_The man nods. "Your twin, he's a political figure as well?"_

_"He's a language interpreter for major ambassador meetings, all over the world, not just in Canada. You know, when he's not working."_

_"Quite a family."_

_America nods. "He's a genius when it comes to bringing things out for people. I could never do what he does."_

_"I think you could do whatever you put your mind to. That's what the world needs, what this institute is all about. Your mind. Letting it do everything it could. Does that sound like something you'd be interested in?"_

_America pauses, fingers tracing invisible patterns on the desk between him and the figure, before looking up with a hopeful smile. "Would I still be allowed to-"_


	28. Chapter 28

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS. **

She can see the ocean sometimes in his gaze.

Something vast and constant on the surface but underneath she only has a second to see his mood shift and she only has a second to see if he'll hold on or fall of the edge completely, lost down there in a dark filled with blue and nothing.

Now she swears she can't see anything but storms.

* * *

He opens his eyes to the hum of the air conditioner, wincing at the creak of his bed and how he could never seem to find any comfortable position. If he strains his ears he can hear the sound of her moving downstairs, and further the sound of bustling New York, and then impossibly close the low drumming of his own heartbeat.

God, he wishes it wasn't at times.

His sister is all smiles and ready for work by the time he comes downstairs, looking at the plate of eggs and bacon and pancakes with coffee while she sits cross legged on his couch and opens the weather beaten copy of Mice and Men.

He will pretend breakfast is just another wave.

* * *

Later, he imagines the ocean pouring from his stomach as he hunches over the porcelain bowl and the knock knock knocking on the bathroom door doesn't dispel him from the high that he is floating on.

Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds later he's all smiles and grins to a pair of green eyes that stain his childhood.

Are you alright? And he prays that England doesn't see him twitch like a spider.

_Absolutely fantastic._

* * *

She comes on a Tuesday.

Her bag is set down and jacket thrown over a chair to look around the kitchen and find his cupboards mostly empty. The refrigerator is a low hum of electricity and artificial light housed in an empty space save for a few odd items. Madeline lifts her head from inside the fridge, turning to slam into his chest with a exclamation. He doesn't react, eyes following her movements before the words come out.

"What are you doing here?"

When she stumbles with an answer and for an explanation from him, he only scoffs, reaching past her to slam the fridge shut.

* * *

It is morning and he is hungry.

It is afternoon and he is hungry.

It is midnight and he is hungry.

* * *

She tries to ignore the common movements of his pacing and standing and running at 2 in the morning.

But then again, he'll never notice her looking.

* * *

Her fingers are like a magnifying glass.

His back seems at a permanent arch, even more so from where her fingers trace along his spine, one leg tucked between his calf and she presses her face into his shoulder.

"Try."

And he does, every single minute and he tries to ignore the constant ache in his stomach and in his chest every single day but now-

Now there's nothing left in either of them it seems.

Alfred take a shuddering breath in and turns to speak, only to be met with an empty space and unrumpled sheets.

* * *

He flinches now if anyone even looks at him, and it doesn't even seem to stop with the concerned gazes of history and sorrow looking at him from across a table.

Why are you doing this? The man with green eyes that stain his childhood asks the question as if it is anything but a lead ball in his stomach. The man with sunshine in his smile echoes the same question in his gaze, and he can't understand how calm he is despite it all falling apart.

The paper isn't anything of a surprise, but he has to admit the signing off from his leader of releasing him into his parent's custody is something like a punch in the gut. Thin fingers sign on the line and he places the pen down before his fingers move towards his mouth in an effort to distract himself from the obvious.

_So close._

In the evening,dinner is something of a hell for all of them, and he can feel their gazes as untouched food remains the same over a space of twenty minutes before he places his unused napkin beside his plate and leaves the table. Canada visibly winces, and bites the inside of her cheek as the echoes of at least seven years for recovery comes back in her mind from earlier.

She would appreciate it if their immortal lives weren't so.

* * *

The man with a cloud on his head, like a grey storm and eyes that seemed too young in such a body is very kind.

America can tell that much at least, and only gives soft, empty, one word responses of yes and no to any of his questions, though Dr. Stevens doesn't seem that dissuaded. Long fingers fiddle with the material of his sweater, tips ghosting over his knuckles that are covered with thin, unsightly scars.

Do you want to get better?

America bites his lip, teeth digging into dry, chapped skin before he gets up, moving past the small enclosure and past the questions of his parents and down the stairs, pushing open the door and keeps walking.

Down a block and turn where they pick up speed and

Into the street where a driver misses a light and

A car slams into him like he was made of nothing but air and light and sound and sweet, sweet, sweet release and-

* * *

He hates his parents.

He hates his sister.

He hates the world.

Not as much as much as he hates himself, with his pride and greed and insecurity and goddamned hero complex that never seemed to go away no matter what he tried to do-

No.

Never as much as he hates Alfred F. Jones.

* * *

He blinks.

The still tick ticking of the clock and the man with the cloud on his head like a grey storm is looking at him and he does none of the aforementioned things.

Sunlight from the early morning spills onto the floor, and he remembers the utter emptiness in his stomach at the sight of redness in his sister's eyes and the shakiness of her breath from that morning. Forty minutes later, he steps out to the quiet conversations of Stevens and Arthur, moving to sit by his papa, who begins to speak of colder weather in a smooth rush of French.

He wishes his mind was the same way.

* * *

"Do you hate me?"

The question is phrased oddly, like a missed rhythm in the space of his brain and mouth that lost who it was being directed at in the end. Still, England looks up from his book at the sight of America in the doorway, lean and lost with his fingers constantly playing with the material of his long sleeved shirt.

Arthur blinks, and America winces at the sudden feeling of hurt and guilt and _I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry_ in his chest after so long a period of being nothing but empty air. He doesn't feel himself moving, but the whimper that comes out of his throat is enough for his father's hand to rest on his shoulder and pull him down to the couch. England hushes him, breathing 'I love you' into the kisses pressed into his hair.

America shakes and shakes and shakes.

* * *

The house itself is oddly quiet, despite the occasional rumble from Kuma and the low hum of the TV in Madeline's home. They had come from a silent car ride to here at the request of Alfred, as if they didn't have enough to worry about with the stalemate between their children.

France is tracing the lines of England's palm while they watch some mindless antique show on PBS, and he smirks to himself at his husband's quiet mockery of "real british tea sets" before there is a thump heard from the other side of the house.

Kuma is up first, a slow moving mass of white fur and sleep before France and England, and they all turn the corner to the sight of her books on the opposite side of the room with a dent in the wall and their daughter crying into America's neck.

If he noticed them, he doesn't make any acknowledgement, moving his sister from her position on the floor and over to the couch, where her legs wrap around his too thin frame and his hands move to run up and down her back and curl into her hair.

Their parents leave then, as something of a solidarity for the two of them as he rocks her back and forth and tries to ignore the feeling disgust at himself for letting anyone see him as ugly as he was-

Stop.

Rewind.

He holds her, fingers tracing up and down the grove of her spine. Canada shudders, and he brushes back the hair from her face as some form of comfort before pressing his lips against her forehead.

Replay.

He loves Madeline.

He loves Madeline.

He loves Madeline.

* * *

Can we go to the beach? Alfred asks one cloudy morning.

He does not want to go to the beach.

France smiles, and it's strange at the sense of normalcy on the surface of the question, with the four of them driving in silence in the car before parking at the practically empty lot. It's too cold to do anything else but walk, both he and Arthur know that. Still, they trail far behind the sight of their children as America bends to pick up a stone before his sister inspects it and tries to skip it on the dark water.

Arthur sighs, and the weight of their worry and protectiveness that hasn't died over the years despite everything seems to be reflected in the heaviness of the cloudy morning.

Canada and America fall asleep in the backseat on the long drive home, an awkward tangle of limbs and fatigue and cold skin and something of an ache reaches both the nations' hearts as they unbuckle seatbelts and hoist the sleeping figures to their chests, carrying them from the car and up the stairs.

Alfred wakes to the humming of England's voice as he moves around the room, putting clothing away in his own closet, and the form of his sister snuggles closer to him in her sleep. He closes his eyes again, and tries to go back to the dream of the ocean surrounding him as he floats underneath the sky.

_Under a bright, blue endless sky_

_Waves try to measure the days that we treasured_

_With hello and then goodbye._

The song his father sings fills the back of his brain, and eventually puts him back to sleep, despite the emptiness in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

Three days and he's not sure if he's able to make it, the sight of shoulder blades like wings giving him some sense of sick pride and he hates and hates and hates-

Her hand is on his shoulder, moving down to grasp his hand in hers and bringing it up to kiss the raised skin of his wrists from past mistakes and grievances.

He was always too much, even back then.

Later, she holds him as he wakes from another nightmare of battlefields and gunshots and music in the background before a bullet entered into his brain- "put a bullet in me" he whispers- and she soothes him amongst cold and choking sheets, kissing"you're beautiful" into his wrists and his hair and his brain.

He cries.

* * *

Three weeks and he's gained enough courage to actually allow her back into his headspace, the familiar warmth of her illuminating his brain like some kind of drug.

His eyes meet hers from across the breakfast table, a mix of guilt and anxiety despite the medication and therapy sessions. France's hand is a calm reminder to breathe, palm squeezing his shoulder and kiss dropped into his hair puts the air into his lungs before he picks up his fork.

Canada gives a slight smile, taking a bite of the eggs on her plate. Stop. Rewind. Replay.

He follows suit.

* * *

Three months and he's-

_Better?_

He opens his eyes to the hum of the air conditioner and settles himself somewhat deeper into the cool sheets. If he strains his ears, he can hear the wind moving outside through the almost bare trees and if he brings it impossibly close he can hear the drumming of his own heartbeat.

Moving might be a better term, albeit slowly.

He will try today, and try he does, moving past his sister's bedroom and down the stairs, before opening the fridge and steadying himself at the array of f-

Stop.

Array of food. And he closes his eyes, hand reaching out and grabbing the first random selection (thankfully, leftover pancake batter in a container).

Rewind.

She comes down the stairs, bleary eyed and still drowsy to the sight of him in the kitchen, teeth biting at fingernail stubs as he stares at the circle of pancake batter, waiting for it to solidify. America's eyes lift up to meet hers, and she smiles, moving around him to turn on the radio and let the low hum of music fill the quiet house.

"Do you want strawberries?" she asks, opening up the fridge and he steels himself, blinking once, twice.

Replay.

Breakfast is just another wave.

America gives a steady exhale, fingers playing at the material of his sleeves, scars on knuckles finally managing to fade away.

"Sure."


	29. Chapter 29

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

It's quieter, he notes, even as they step out of the mirror and into the new room. Soft sunlight moving through large windows, catching and distilling their rays onto the living room floor through the light, white curtains that shifted slightly in the breeze from the few windows that were open outside. England casts a glance at his son (the word seemed strange in this context) whose eyes are surveying the situation in a way that could only be described as curiosity with growing confusion.

"And you want me to...?" America trails off, moving carefully along the room, eyes scanning along the assortments of paintings and various objects before his eyes land on a large picture on the right side. The woman has red hair and looks older, with a pale face and wearing a large dress with a stiff, pointing collar. One hand rests on a globe of the world.

"Be yourself." England says simply from where he had remained. America hums, moving from the picture of Queen Elizabeth to sink down slowly on the grey couch.

"What version?" Alfred asks softly, more to himself than his father, and ignores the slight frown on his parent's face at the statement. His gaze has settled to the low coffee table, arranged with a vase of white flowers in a even whiter substance. His hand reaches out despite himself, finger barely brushing the soft petals before a voice speaks out that makes him nearly jump at the..._familiarity_ of its sound.

"White Oleander."

America's eyes lift from the plant, scanning along the floor and across the room to meet green eyes and-

_Oh. _

Green eyes that stain his childhood, yes, for one, but in the wrong space and the wrong time and the wrong body. She's tall, pale, and about the same height as his father with a similar walk as she moves across the room, adjusting curtains, but her gaze never really seems to leave him. There's something in the way she moves that almost hypnotizes him, like a sort of royal or leader that he couldn't contend with even if he tried, something like art on canvas painting. Long blond hair that catches on the sunlight that oddly enough his ties back in two pigtails, though it doesn't distract from her incriminating gaze. For a moment, her eyes catch the light a reflection of deep green with flexes of brown below the surface, and he's suddenly mesmerized by how absolutely _beautiful_ she is.

America wonders if she can see right into him with eyes like that.

He doesn't really notice his father entering the room, with the assortment of tea and placing it on the coffee table, before casting a quick glance at the woman whose lips barely quirk upwards without even meeting England's gaze. He moves out to some unseen part of the house and it's just the two of them. She leans back against the wall, arms folded lightly across the material of her black, long sleeved shirt.

"Do you like them?"

"I-what?" he stammers and she only blinks.

"My flowers." she repeats, voice cool.

"Wha-oh. Yeah. Yes. Yes. They're, um, really white," he manages to get out, blue eyes still staring at her with something of absolute fascination and (he knows she knows) apprehension.

"Am I making you nervous?" Alice asks, head cocking slightly as she notes him biting the inside of his cheek and fingers beginning to play with the sleeves of his own shirt from where he sat on her couch. "Alfred."

He actually flinches at that before shaking his head and dear god this was way too trippy for him to actually comprehend and how she was England but not but at the same time she actually was. He jumps at the hand suddenly on his shoulder, before she sinks down next to him, green eyes scanning his face. There's something about her, he can feel that much, underneath the surface like a constant humming of something old and deep in her veins that he didn't know what to do with.

She was too much for him to actually comprehend.

"My name is Alice, by the way. If your father didn't tell you already."

He manages a slight smile at that. "Hi. I'm sorry. I'm being ridiculous-

She cuts him off with a smile and he's stunned for a moment at the sight of it. "It's quite alright, this is all new for you I'm sure."

Alfred gives a snort of amusement. "Yeah, well, the idea of there being a different version of the Britain I'm used to is a bit of a shock, not to say that I don't want to meet you, I mean we're already meeting and stuff but still I-" he cuts off, partially out of his own self imposed rambling and with her gaze becoming something more of a study, one hand drumming against her leg.

"I'd like to try something." she says. "If that's alright with you."

He shrugs. "Sure. I mean, as long as I don't get another lecture from Iggy about "polite behavior", then go ahead. What are you going to-"

"Your head. I just want to take a little look inside. Don't worry, I won't go peeking into anything that you don't want me to."

He hesitates (of course) but something in the back of his brain makes him nod in acquiesce. Alice's hands come up, fingertips pressing lightly against his temples as her eyes close and the words come out softly.

"Relax and stay still."

He watches her eyes move underneath her eyelids before something almost buzzes in the back of his brain and he can practically feel the humming that came from her enter into his body before it's gone it what seemed like an instant.

He's left decidedly empty in the aftereffect.

Alice opens her eyes, giving him a smile, before both look up to the sight of his father leaning against the doorway. "You didn't even touch the tea." he notes calmly to Alice, who gives him a raised eyebrow.

"Goodness, can you think of nothing else, Arthur?" Alice responds, standing up and moving back to the other side of the coffee table. America shifts, standing as well with his eyes not knowing quite where to look. England smiles slightly, before speaking to his son. "Did you and Alice find some common ground?"

He looks at Alice with the question in his hands before speaking. "Yeah. Yeah I think so. It was nice. Like your flowers."

Alice nods in agreement, eyes still studying him even as they moved back towards the mirror. "Bye, Alice." America says, and she can feel the pang in her gut of how something so bright and wonderful and golden as him couldn't have been hers instead.

"Goodbye, Alfred."

* * *

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"You know what." His father presses, gaze set on the road ahead of them as they drove. America's finger traces along the glass, following the pattern of rain streaking down the surface. There is silence for a few moments, before he speaks, words hesitant.

"Pale. And beautiful. Like a picture in a museum."

He smiles again.

_Like her flowers._

* * *

**This turned out better than I thought it would. **

**I enjoy writing more sentimental and thoughtful America than from what the show portrays him, and also the idea that he would be very much thrown off kilter by meeting someone like Alice, who is like his father is every single way, and yet she isn't. Do you think I should do one with Marianne (Fem!France) and Canada? Let me know in comments! :) **

**READ AND REVIEW! **


	30. Chapter 30

** I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS **

They really were a glorious thing.

He leans back in his seat by the window,momentarily away from the crowds of good wishes and laughter in order to clear past the muddled part of his brain.

Years seemed to go by like fireworks. Same old red white and-

_blue sky during the nighttime hour as the final word comes in._

_He had done it. _

_Even with Washington, old as he was, the testament of that fact seemed to resonate throughout him. _

_Their land._

_His land. _

_Alfred runs a his through his hair in the dark of the night, looking out from the grounds of his leaders estate and feeling_

_Pride?_

_Why was that a question? His jaw ticks and the reminder is back again before he can stop himself of remorse and regret and if he had only given him a chance then maybe this wouldn't have happen-_

"You're brooding."

He blinks and takes in a breath sinking in the sound of fireworks, not cannons, and the humming of air conditioning and it was 2015 not 1776.

"You always say that." he hums, taking another sip of champagne before it is slipped away by nimble fingers. "How'd you find me?"

Madeline gives him one of the biggest _seriously? _looks he'd ever seen from her and by the way that she's moving he gets out of the chair and follows her out the back door.

The rush of air is almost a relief, and she smiles to herself at the pressure coming off his shoulders, arms crossed over the black material of her evening dress.

"Pretty, aren't they?"she comments at the display of fireworks lighting up the sky.

America smiles. "Yeah." His eyes train themselves from the display back to his sister. "But I doubt you dragged me out here to talk about fireworks. "

Madeline laughs slightly before sobering. "Talking, Alfred."

"Maddie-"

"Come on. You've been avoiding him."

"I have not-"

A sharp pain that runs through their link and an annoyed look from her quickly shuts him up. Blue and violet eyes look a few leagues away to the figure standing by the small pond's edge. America bites his tongue before sighing, prompting a hum of agreement from his twin.

"Fine. But this doesn't mean anyth-"

"Yeah yeah." She lifts herself up on her toes slightly to kiss his cheek. _Thank you flyboy._

* * *

"You're not very good at sneaking up on people."

America almost winces at the older nation's words, moving from his place to stand beside him with a small laugh. "Guess I'll need to work on that."

The silence keeps for a few moments before Arthur speaks. "I'm hoping you've got your severe patriotic complex out of your system."

"Why? Think I'm going to jump you with guns and eagles screaming my national anthem at the top of my lungs, Iggy?" He elbows England lightly, smile wide.

Arthur smirks, gaze still set ahead. "America, you may be the world's largest superpower but I can still turn you into a puppy without thinking."

His smile falters. "Not cool, dude."

"Maybe you shouldn't go through my things."

_"I was seven!" _

Arthur shrugs. "Not my problem."

America kicks at the dirt with his shoe, watching the dust play in the air before it disappeared into the dark. His voice is hesitant. "Will you tell me the story?"

Arthur looks at him, raising an eyebrow. "And have that French frog come to me hours later complaining about my parenting skills _again-" _

_"_No." America laughs, waving a hand is dismissal before sobering. "The _other_ one."

England's brow furrows in confusion for moment before understanding reaches his face. "Why'd you want to hear that?"

Alfred shrugs. "Humor me."

England sighs, hands slipping into his pockets as they began to walk. The silence reigns for a few moments before he starts speaking again.

"It was autumn, near the middle of it at least and I was walking along in the woods-one of my few moments without anyone or the frog bothering me. And I hear from a little ways off a sort of fussing sound and I go over to look and-" he stops for a moment, a smile working it's way onto his lips. "There you were. Just sitting there in a pile of leaves and...trying to teethe on them which wasn't going well. I was very careful about the whole situation, you understand, you being a new nation, or at the very least a piece of land. But something just... clicked. You stopped fussing once I picked you up and just looked at me with the biggest blue eyes I had ever seen. They were like the sky, all wide and open."

His gaze flickers to Alfred, whose same eyes are watching with intense focus. They've stopped now by a stone bench before both sit, lost in thought.

"And?" Alfred's voice is quiet.

England smiles, gaze now on his hands. "A part of me was so afraid that you would die on my watch and arguably to this day God only knows how you and your sister survived our parenting skills, or better yet lack thereof." Both laugh slightly before Arthur continues, voice softer. "God, I wasn't even thinking. I just took you back with me, fed you, scrambled up a makeshift bed and even then you wouldn't sleep. You cried if I wasn't holding you. The both of you really- and we would beg and plead with the two of you and make you all kinds of promises if you would just _go to sleep. _And you did after a while, and you were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen."

A pause.

And another.

Alfred can feel the uncomfortable mixture in his stomach-nostalgia, sadness, pain.

_Guilt. _

_"_How could I-" he begins before stopping, biting his lip.

"No sense in staying in the past, America. You and I should know that better than anyone else."

He chuckles humorlessly. "I'd have to say that I have more _reasoning _per say of living in the past," his clear blue eyes lock onto Britain's form, "_Dad_."

The word is seethed through a gritting set of teeth and England makes no move as his son-the word burns just thinking about it- shoves himself up from the seat. He waits until he is walking off to call out the words.

"I'm proud of you, Alfred."

And the stinging, knife holding denial comes again, twisting its blade into his stomach until he can't breathe. _No you're not because I'm not because some days I'm on top of the world because I broke what you gave me took your human love and dashed it to pieces how dare you say that __**how dare you**_

"I..._apologize_ if that is a foreign concept to me."

Alfred feels a disassociation between the way his words sounded in his head and how they come out-black and tangled like dead weeds.

England snorts. "For God's sake, Alfred learn to take a compliment once in a while. It won't kill you. Believe me, I was absolutely furious when you left, the rage directed at you for thinking of such a thing as independence. And for...loving you the way I did."

America turns, crossing his arms. "I fail to see love in any part of this."

England hums in acknowledgement. "You see, America, I could never win when it came to you. And take that you wish, but using you and your sister as a sense of normalcy, as a way of slowing down my practically meaningless existence, was without a doubt destined to crash and burn. What you fail to realize is that weather or not you had gone or that frog hadn't left your sister to prove a point or I had somehow managed to keep my control over everything: _what we had would not have lasted."_

_Of course. Like anything ever did. _The ferocity of the truth on both their parts hits him hard and Alfred bite the inside of his cheek to lessen the blow-it doesn't work.

England sighs, lifting himself off of the cold bench and looking at the younger nation's stance- the emotions he didn't want to portray bleeding into his rigid stance and crossed arms- before moving closer. America's gaze is set firmly onto the pavement, shoes shuffling slightly and for a brief moment, England sees the seven year old caught with his book of spells again.

"If there's anything good you've gotten from it, America, it's not giving up." America feels fingers nudge up his chin before meeting vibrant green eyes with a hesitant gaze of his own. "Even when it's for your own good, hmm?"

That warrants a slight tugging of Alfred's lips and the hand holding his chin moves to cup his cheek, thumb running along the bone underneath. And the childish habit resurfaces before he can help himself, stance relaxing as he leans into the older nation's touch,holding onto what might have been before it disappears completely from his memory.

"Now," England states, moving away and putting his hands into his pockets, "I suspect you have a sister who is waiting for a dance?"

America laughs, running a hand through his hair. "Old sentimentalism, don't you think?"

"No. Love, Alfred. You never lose it." _Not even from me._

And he watches him again, both of them lighter than before and the former British Empire sees his distraction of living turn and leave, and tries to ignore the slight ache in his heart as he did so. He'd get over it.

Eventually.


	31. Chapter 31

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS **

"Dancing."

England's eyes regard the girl by the doorway, whose fingers are trailing over his copious amounts of books in the spacious library.

"You know how."

America bites her lip, before shaking her head. "No, like, old people dancing."

A raised eyebrow. "Are you calling me old?"

She doesn't answer to that, giving almost a bark of a laugh before sinking down into an armchair, feet and legs up where her head was meant to be, the dark blue of her jeans stark against the pale fabric.

"So?"

"So."

"You'll do it then," she deadpans. Arthur sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Answer people in full thoughts, please, Amelia. I'm not a mind reader."

She laughs again, studying her nails for a moment. "Teach me."

Slowly he closes his book, setting it carefully on the coffee table, before steeping his fingers together.

"You would like me to teach you how to dance?" he inquires delicately.

She shoots him a glare of annoyance, "Isn't that what I just said?"

"Forgive me for not quite believing my ears," Arthur says dryly.

She has the grace to glance away, the unsaid burn of memories cutting in the air between them.

The last time they danced was in 1775.

The year before she left him.

Slowly she stands up, shuffling towards the door, "It's ok. It was a long shot anyway."

"Amelia," Arthur's stern voice slices through the air, making America stop and slowly turn around.

Green eyes met blue, and more softly, England said, "I was not refusing."

"Oh," she worries at her lip with her teeth, and as she stares up at him in an awkward challenge, he can't help but reflect at how truly young she is.

240 years is not a long time to be an independent nation, not really. Almost peripherally, he sees that her eyes haven't changed over the years.

Without speaking, he goes to the corner and selects a disc, placing it in his CD player.

As the strains of music fill the air, Amelia cocks an eyebrow, "My Fair Lady?"

He shrugs, holding out a hand to his daughter who was still hovering near the door.

She comes forward, taking it with only a slight hesitation.

Once they were in the proper position before each other, him still holding her hand, he comments, "It seemed appropriate."

"How?" she asks, resting her hand lightly on his shoulder as directed, his large hand coming to rest on the small of her back.

"Because I have to tame you-again," he shakes his head in mock seriousness, "How you do not know how to waltz is beyond me. Especially with Francis and I as your parents."

She sticks her tongue out at him, pouting, before saying, "Papa doesn't waltz, he does a mating dance whenever he goes on the dance floor."

"Mmm," is the only sound Arthur makes, though the sides of his mouth twitches, making Amelia smirk.

"Alright, ready?"

She nods.

"Step backwards as I step forwards, but with the opposite leg. We're going to make a box on the floor over and over again, basically. Now, 1-2-3…1-2-3…1-2-3…"

Even her clumsiness at first, stepping on his toes (with what he suspects to be enthusiasm), her inner gracefulness is obvious, and it doesn't take long for them to be moving fluidly in circles around the study, the song on repeat.

"You know, you used to stand on my feet when we would dance," Arthur eventually says into the silence.

"I remember," she says softly, the top of her head all he can see as she stares at their feet.

"You were so small, barely reaching up to my waist, but you wanted to dance like the adults did. Precocious," he murmurs the word almost to himself.

She snorts, "That's one word for it. Nicer than most."

Her words were bitter, and Arthur doesn't say anything for a moment.

"I don't regret those years, Amelia," he finally replies. And it is a reply, to the unspoken question in her statements.

She doesn't speak, merely glances up at him with those dark blue eyes, doubt evident. They aren't dancing anymore, arms still in place, swaying slightly to the music.

"I wouldn't trade those memories for anything, you should know that."

More silence.

"Amelia?"

"Thanks for teaching me how to dance," she says finally, stepping out of her dance position so that he is no longer touching her. He silently lets her go to the door this time, watching as once again she walks away with her back to his face.

But before she exists, she hesitates, and their eyes meet.

"I know," she whispers, before gently closing the study door behind her.


	32. Chapter 32

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS **

_The static from the radio is meant to wake her up, but she's still there, curled in a body of angles and uncertainty. The knocking that comes five minutes later doesn't make her stir because she knows the stranger has a key, or at least knows where it is, but only gives her the grace of the action to alleviate some of the awkwardness._

_It doesn't._

_America feels stiff, almost otherworldly by the time he steps into the room, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the smell of untouched (and probably bad) hotel food left on the desk, along with the staleness of the room from drawn curtains, only a sliver of sunlight coming through and cutting across the floor, only to interrupted by his shoe._

_There are several holes in the walls, and Arthur almost doesn't notice the broken vase of flowers, water stain only starting to dry from where it was smashed against the wall. Nonetheless, he sits down across from her on the edge of the bed, eyes scanning over his child, (the word is the only one he can think of right now that is appropriate given the circumstances), so small it seemed in a black dress and bare feet._

_"America."_

_She winces, her only visible reaction to anything for the past week and a half, but otherwise shows nothing else, eyes still staring blankly at the closed curtains. He must make it harder, he thinks, her king whether she liked it or not, or some kind of knight for Jack, but in both cases-_

_Camelot burned every time it seemed._

* * *

52 years and even though it's his brother, that makes no difference.

52 years and she's inappropriate in this weather, soaking wet and dripping onto his carpet a trail of drain water and some mud from shorts, and t-shirt, and a pair of converse.

52 years and how she manages to stay this long without breaking down, England has no idea. But, ever the gentleman, (and she hates him for it sometimes), he closes the door behind them both before facing her, nothing between them but the sound of rain pouring outside and her own nerves, causing the word to spill out from America's lips.

"Hi."

He fights the urge to laugh. Or say nothing. Maybe some strange in between. "Hello." A sniff from her, and he sees the red in her eyes, a combination of no sleep and only tears for what he has to guess could either be the last few days or months. "Are you alright?"

Amelia blinks. Another sniff, and he stops his cringe as she wipes her nose on the back of her jacket sleeve, tied around her waist. "Yeah. No. Um, yes. I'm fine."

England nods coolly. "It's almost 11." The only reason he was still up was finishing some unexpected paperwork. Her eyes seem to concentrate more on the blue of his sweater than his actual face. "America."

She winces first, then looks at him second. "What?"

England fights back a sigh, his annoyance at this point slowly bleeding into actual concern, but ever the one for control, he doesn't let it show. Not yet. "Why are you here?"

Million dollar grin that doesn't distract him for a second; the sight, in fact, is almost painful, both in receiving it and watching her preform. "Couldn't sleep, and there was nothing to do over at the hotel either, so I though I'd pay my old man a visit and-"

"You're a terrible liar, Amelia."

The smile falters, for only a second, before placing itself back up again, her words a bit sharper now, but with the same dose of enthusiasm that would infectious to anyone not trained in the ways supposed Wonder Woman Amelia E. Jones. "Don't be like that, Iggy. It's hard enough as it is having all these ideas and energy running through my brain. A heroine never rests!"

She can't stand the way he's looking at her, that gruff exterior bleeding into parental concern and she has to mentally hit herself as if to say _remember remember you don't need your father _but then again, a part of her doubts her strength in that respect. It wasn't her fault she was like this, right? Her hand moves to tug at her wet hair, trying to ignore the sound in the back of her brain of cheers and cameras and the smell of motorcycle oil-

"-listening to me?" England's voice snaps her back to something akin to the present.

She blinks. "Sorry, what?"

He frowns, before taking in a deep breath and moving forward, silently unwrapping the jacket from around her waist and hanging its wet contents on the hanger beside the door.

"What are you-"

"Upstairs. Bathroom's the second door on the left. I'll get you some clothes," he says, gesturing for her to take off her shoes. She bends, awkward and somewhat hesitant, and places them beside the door on the mat before the idea to actually protest this comes into he brain but by then he's already moving upstairs. She follows after him, careful not to create more of a wet mess.

"It's fine, really, I can just walk back." Another strained smile. "It's not a big deal, okay? Look, I'm sorry for bothering you, but you really don't have to-"

"You can leave your clothes outside the door. I'll get them." It's like her protests aren't even being heard, or he's just really good at shifting the conversation, but with that she stops completely in the hallway.

"I already told you, Iggy,_ I'm fine." _

England can't help the eye roll. Because showing up at practically the middle of the night in the pouring rain seemed fine to her, and absolutely nothing violate and wrong about the situation to him. He turns, voice gentle but ever to the point, and folds the soft yellow of the towel. "I frankly don't care about your excuses. You don't need to throw a fit, or fight me; hell, you don't even need to talk to me. All I'm asking is that you get out of those clothes so that you don't make yourself sick."

America opens her mouth to retort, only to have nothing come out. So, when nothing comes, she tries pent up annoyance, catching the towel he tosses her and heads into the bathroom, door swinging closed behind her.

* * *

**I'm alive. **

**And have spent the past two weeks writing poems about history, specifically American, so this came as a result of one of my own poems. Also Bing's _What Happened Today in History._ **

**Let me know if you want more with what's going on with ever stubborn America and England. :)**

**READ AND REVIEW! **


	33. Chapter 33

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA: AXIS POWERS **

It always starts with the first perceived mistake. A slip of tongue, an idea not properly placed, her brain coming up with thoughts too quickly for her mouth to catch up, prompting a series of groans and _don't you dare drop that smile __**you piece of shit-**_

No one notices the slight lifting of a skirt underneath a table, or the point of a pencil digging into her flesh to put some calm into her brain.

Before the real fun begins.

* * *

"You okay?"

The question is from her brother, and the buzz has barely started to drown out the noise of the rest of the world (much to her disappointment) and she smiles, taking another sip of coffee, the black making her feet heavy.

"Yeah."

"Did you sleep okay?" His tone is casual, but the intention is hoping to break down her monotone answer. She tries not to flinch at his words, brain coming back to the buzz of the television in her room all night, and the shivers down her spine at another cold bath, anything to chase away the thoughts.

"Yeah. You?"

The conversation is like that for ten more minutes, and she bites back the small guilt in her stomach when he gets up from his place, and kisses her cheek as he makes to leave for a meeting.

* * *

It's 57 hours, 12 minutes, 26 seconds and she can feel the black creeping in the back of her brain.

Another punch is aimed at the wall in the empty parking garage, the only sound being her bones connecting with concrete and mind turning into water.

* * *

"America."

Her head lifts up from her paperwork, placing down the pencil and regretting the movement, almost unable to hear England at the sound of blood moving through every vein in her body-

Work. Meeting. Dinner. Schedules. September 21st, 2:15. Don't be late. Faxes. Papers.

She sees him looking at the shaking of her fingers, an affect of three cups of coffee with six sugars each and one caffeine pill for each cup and she is fine thank you very much-

* * *

"Talk to me."

She is too numb at this point to even bother with trying to conceal the dullness in her eyes, grey tinging too pale skin. Amelia gives another smile to her twin, adding a pat of his hand for good measure.

"I'm okay. Really-"

"I don't give a damn if you lie to the rest of the world," he jerks his head to the embassy, "Don't lie to me."

But that wasn't how the game worked.

Not anymore.

* * *

63 hours, 37 minutes, 8 seconds that she has existed in the waking world.

Seems they hated her as much as her own dreams did.

* * *

The knock on her door makes her jump, moving from the jumble of words on pages of paperwork to rub her eyes, the movement now stale and somewhat painful with the fresh bruises on her knuckles and the ever lingering headache.

71 hours, 18 minutes 42 seconds and she opens the door to the sight of her father.

"Hi."

She blinks, once, twice, and hopes he doesn't see her grip tighten on the knob. "Hi."

A pause, and America concentrates on the green on his cardigan. He should wear the color more often. It suited him. "Can I come in?"

Refusal would only affirm whatever Matthew had placed in his head, so America nods, leaving the door open as she walks back into the spacious suite, words more directed at the space in front of her than England. "Honestly, I don't understand what all the fuss is about. It's just a bit of an overload at work, a couple of late nights, but that's it, okay? The way he has to keep going into after I've told him that I'm-"

"You're shaking."

She freezes at his statement, the sound of those two words coming out of Arthurs mouth as casual as if he had said "the sky is blue." The young nation turns at his approach. England tilts his head, as if thinking about something before she has the brain power to speak. "I'm cold."

"You've gotten good at this, I have to admit, but did you honestly think you could keep doing this without someone noticing?"

She should say something. Do something-

"You can't sit still, or even stand still for a longer than a couple of seconds. Your arms are crossed in the hope of stopping the unsteadiness of your hands, probably given to your fatigue." His hand is gentle in the way he tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, before his fingers move downwards to press against the angle of her neck, pulse jumping underneath his fingertips.

"I'm fine." The words are poison in her mouth.

"Your heartbeat would beg to differ."

America flinches then, trying to find some sensible reason to why she felt that her chest was going to explode asides from her own pent up emotions and the ungodly amount of caffeine pills she had managed to consume in the past few days.

England's gaze softens, and she is trying to calm herself but that got harder and harder every single fucking day-

"Why are you doing this?"

She bites the inside of her cheek, trying to stop the rush of thoughts that come forth at the question _you keep that smile on your face because that's all you're good for you disgusting worthless **piece of shit**-_

_"Why not?" _


	34. Chapter 34

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA: AXIS POWERS **

_"Daddy."_

_It is dark and the girl is in her parents' bedroom, a ghost in a white nightgown. A ghost of hyperactivity and the too tired nation in the bed knows that he had put her to sleep three hours ago. The voice is at his ear, breath warm over his skin and England silently swears. "Daddy. Daddy, I gotta tell you something."_

_One eye opens, green eye cloudy with sleep. "What is it?"_

_"The deerman. He's in my room. He came while I was sleeping. You gotta make him leave. I can't sleep. Will you read to me?" The colony is up again, crashing into the nightstand. "Can we make a cake? I want to make a cake. I don't want lessons tomorrow. Mrs. Kensington doesn't like me. Daddy, the deerman. Do you have to work tomorrow? Will you read to me?"_

_Her brain is on fire, it seems._

_"Amelia, darling, it's the middle of the night," he says, yawning. "Can't it wait until tomorrow?" Next to him, the Frenchman grumbles and rolls over before slipping back into deeper sleep._

_"I can't go back in there! The deerman_ _will get me!" Her nerves are like lightning, and he has to sympathize with the itch of representation yet unknown crawling under her skin. "We could make cookies instead! I want a horse! A gray one like the sky back where you live! Can we go to the ocean? I want to get seashells and take them all and count them and-"_

_Her father swings his legs off the bed and grabs her by the shoulders. "Love, can you slow down? Just slow down."_

_Amelia blinks, eyes buzzing underneath _thin_ skin._

_England gives a smile. "What was one thing you want to tell me? One thing that-"_

_"The deerman, but Daddy, I can't-" she says and bursts into tears because the noise and light and sensation was overwhelming and but if she slept she would die she knew it-_

_"Shh..." he says and picks the colony up, small legs around him and they move out into the hall. The world slows down for a little bit, and those voices inside of her head a quiet for a second, moving back and forth like the sound of distant waves. His breathing is steady, her face pressed against his shoulder, and fingers curled into the fabric of his nightshirt. _

_The waves roll low. _

_His voice is bringing her back down from that dreadful panic, her sobs quieting down to the occasional sniffle. _

And the waves roll high, so it goes.

_Her body feels lighter, a suspension of fading anxiety and fatigue. England moves up and down that seemingly never ending hallway, the smooth tenor of his voice carrying into the dark. _

Under the bright, blue, endless sky.

Waves try to measure the days that we treasured.

_Amelia is falling back down further into the deep, calming space of sleep as he coaxes her back into a more relaxed state. _

_This is how he fixes it._

With hello, and then

_How he fixes everything._

Goodbye.

* * *

**This is very very short and something my brain came up with, but I'm kind of digging flashback scenes. They're strange and weird but i still enjoy it nonetheless. Life has been hard and that bleeds into writing, meaning a lot of angry staring at an empty page. **

**Hopefully, I'm getting back into the swing of things. **

**READ AND REVIEW! **


	35. Chapter 35

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA: AXIS POWERS **

"Concentrate."

It's a few seconds before the frustrated sigh comes out of the 19-year-old, and runs a hand through her hair. England feels a tinge of sympathy at her frustration, and shifts slightly from his place on the floor of his living room. "We can always-"

"No." America's voice is deadpanned. The stubbornness came from him, he had to admit, and her curiosity combined with that didn't do much to help the situation. Blue eyes flicker up for a moment to meet green. "I can do this."

"I never said you couldn't, but taking a break is sometimes a good thing, you know."

Amelia rolls her eyes, tracing a finger around the rim of the teacup between the two of them. "Why won't you move?" she asks the object, and England has to fight the smirk at the practical whining in her voice. "Why can't I do it?"

"I told you. It takes practice."

"Practice is for losers. I want floaty things now."

"The correct term is levitation, and what you'll be getting now," he says, shifting himself up from his position on the living room carpet, "is tea." He extends out a hand, and it's a moment of pondering that object of porcelain once more before she takes it.

* * *

"Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire." America punctuates each word with a sugar cube dropped into her cup, and England nearly cringes at the sleepless repercussions that will no doubt have her organizing his cupboards at two in the morning.

"I did not lie, and I certainly never said this was easy. There are factors that play into it, not to mention years of practice and are you even listening to me?"

She has her head resting in her arms across the small table, feigning sleep at this point as a reaction to his so-called "lectures", and lifting her head up angrily when he flicks her head.

"Ow!"

"Pay attention." he shoots back and she grumbles, angrily taking a bite of a biscuit. "As I was saying," he continues, "it takes more than you just wanting it. It's a state that you're in and something you can't just bring up depending on how you feel, even if it is something like making a teacup float."

America sighs. "I thought I would be good at this. History aside, there's gotta be something in my...genes or whatever that makes this less complicated. I mean, the whole idea of it is actually just frustrating because nothing will do what I actually want it to and-"

"I suggest you calm down."

"Don't tell me to calm down, magic man! It's your fault that i got into this in the first place!"

England raises an eyebrow in slight confusion but also amusement. "My fault for you asking for magic lessons?"

_"Yes!"_ And there's a sound like a gunshot going off at her side of the table, making the nation yelp in surprise as her teacup shatters , the dark liquid staining the light blue of the tablecloth underneath. England looks unperturbed, stirring his own drink and placing the spoon back onto the saucer.

"I told you to calm down." He says the words as if they were just discussing the weather and takes a sip of his tea while she gapes at her hands for a moment.

"What the hell just happened?"

Arthur shrugs. "You got angry. Magic is tied to you, including your emotions. In this case, you didn't have an intent, just a raw feeling. It came out on instinct, and you can hurt yourself or someone else if you aren't careful- ah, ah, ah. _No_."

It's with a flick of his wrist that he closes the cupboards from across the kitchen by the time she's halfway over, the American turning to him with annoyance written all over her face.

"Daddy, _come on_."

That word is only used to placate him, and he takes in her form of jeans and gray t-shirt and then can sense something deeper, that same shifting in her veins, pulsing underneath her skin and he can understand the high that she is on of wanting to break and burn and bleed out everything that was in that head of hers.

But one of them had to have some measure of control.

"It's a cup." she argues.

"It's china, and _no_." England shoots back. "Though the pout almost had me for a second, then I remembered that you're 240 years old and not four."

Even with those words, she still pouts and sticks her tongue out at him for good measure. So much for age being a factor for some level of maturity. "Although," he says, and knows for a fact he is going to regret this as he gets up from his place at the table and moves past her to open another cabinet of older cups and glasses. Amelia grin and squeal of excitement is infectious to anyone except his own ears, though he can't help the slight lifting in his chest at her excitement.

The feeling grows with the sudden contact of arms wrapping around his waist, squeezing tightly.

England smiles fully, and America tries to ignore the warmth blooming in her chest at the kiss pressed in her hair. The feeling is replaced, however, at his next words.

"You're buying me a new tablecloth first."


End file.
